Marianne and the Song of Redwall
by ifeelmad
Summary: Two young ferrets have fled from their dying tribal settlement. But now, although they are not aware of it, they are fleeing from vengeful paws.
1. Chapter One

Grey-black had clouded Mossflower's skies, and everywhere, treetops were performing a madly festive dance - swaying to and fro, tossing branches, now and again bracing themselves against the crash of the rain, scattering leaves all around.

There was nothing that Salome dreaded more than a nighttime excursion into the Woods, alone, when it was storming.

Against the surrounding forest, the young ferret was a tiny figure - swathed in her brother's cloak, which now clung, rain-sodden, to her fur; the water-pail tucked beneath one arm. Every whip-crack of lightning goaded her to haste, and she splashed on recklessky, complaining all the while, as if her voice could be heard above the rain's leaf-battering music.

"Oh, Hellgates - I can't wait till autumn! One moment it's sunny, th' next moment it's pourin' rain!"

She leapt in fright at the sound of a snapping branch; the cloak's hood, overlarge as it was, fell before her eyes, and, after stumbling sightlessly for a few moments, she landed into a sizable puddle of mudwater. It was with difficulty that she managed to haul herself upright, spitting bits of mud and sodden leaf between coughs.

Salome glanced down the front of the cloak - the black-dyed fabric had been soaked through, and she doubted that any amount of scrubbing and wringing would remove the filth.

Salome swore aloud. She knew that if not for the cold, Samuel , her brother, would never have entrusted it to her, seeing as she had ruined her own cloak not long before.

Salome stooped to retrieve the now-empty pail. Thunder struck the earth like a massive gavel, and, to Salome, all of Mossflower seemed to quake. The young ferretmaid realized that she was shaking, as well.

"I'll just fill th' thing with rainwater an' then try t' find my way home," she told herself. "Samuel probably won't know th' difference . . . Hellgates, why'd I 'ave t' go an' get lost . . . ."

"Aye, its likely yore right there, missie. I wouldnt notice a thing!"

A lightning bolt, at its best, could never have frightened Salome asbadly as the sound of that voice did.

This weasel's face might have been mistaken for a mask - a mask that was decorated, it could be said, with ink-black bumps and purple-edged bruises. The whiskers were grey with filth; beneath them, rows of jagged, cheese-colored teeth formed a grinning zipper.

"Aye, I dont suppose I'd notice a thing if I was in yore big brother's place, missie." Each word sent a gust of hot, damp, foul-smelling breath into Salome's face. "After all, there was days I was so weak I'd thank my lucky stars if I could make it to the barrel the rainwater dripped into. Nearly perished of thirst, I did. But you and yore brother couldnt've known about that - ye'd never allow an old friend to suffer if ye could 'elp it, now would ye? "

His paw shot out, before Salome could flinch, and caught her by the scruff. Now Salome dared not move, for the cloak's collar was closing in, yoke-like, about her throat.

"Whats the matter, me lovely? Don't favor me mug, do ye?"

Her silence only seemed to give him even greater amusement; he sniggered delightedly. "Now, now, dont ye worry, me darlin', ye ain't th' first one. Most every beast as ever laid eyes on me was struck with dread- 'specially by these 'ere bumps. Black ugly things, aint they?"

Now, his free paw shot out, just as suddenly as the first paw had, to anchor itself -claw-first - into Salome's shoulder. Salome screamed.

"Aye – an' ye would've 'ad the same as meself and me fine cronies if'n ye'd stayed. Oh, I knows who ye are – the pretty little wench who reckoned as she was too good to stay be'ind and die with th' rest o' us. Now that ain't a nice way t' think, is it?"

Having enjoyed the sight of the young ferret maid, shrieking and writhing like a tormented insect, the weasel seemed to decide that he had had enough of this game. When his claws unhooked themselves from her shoulder, it must have resembled a sheet of stapled paper. Blood might have filled those holes, but missiles of rain were battering her shoulder. By rights, Salome ought to have been in agony. But she could pay no more mind to a wounded shoulder, while a dagger was hovering inches from her throat. The weasel chuckled again.

"Now, should I stab ye quick-like, or should I gag ye with this 'ere belt and make yore death slow for ye, eh? Then again, missie, ye couldnt tell me yore big brother's whereabouts with a gag across yore mouth, could you? Course, if ye spill it t' me quick enough, I'll consider endin' you just as quick!"

His lips parted, as if he was about to laugh at his own cleverness. After a few moments, however, his jaw slackened - hung open, allowing a river of clotted blood and saliva to gush forth.

Before Salome realized it, she was being hauled upright. She made a few shaky, staggering efforts, and, at last, managed to stand. The weasel lay in the mud, lifeless, soaking up the rain like a sponge.

Samuel stood near his head, holding his dagger so that the rain could rinse the blood from his blade. When it was clean, he returned it to its sheath. He spoke through gritted teeth.

"Come on, Salome! Never mind the God-blasted water."

OoooOOoooOOoo

Inside of the log den, Salome retired to the back, where the embers of the neglected fire were still giving out some warmth. When her paws regained their steadiness, she peeled the cloak from her fur; it fell in a crumpled heap about her feet. Rainwater, mud, and a bellyful of blood had ensured that neither the cloak, nor its fabric, would ever again be of use to any beast.

As Salome tried to toast some feeling into her cold-stiffened paws, Samuel stalked over to her.

"Salome! What in Hellgates is the matter with you? " Salome could tell, without turning to face Samuel, that his teeth were still clenched."You know where th' stream is, an' how t' get back to th' den - how in Satan's name did you manage t' get lost? Are you just plain stupid or somethin'? "

Salome flinched. She continued her efforts to warm her paws - and those glowing embers might have fulfilled their purpose, had she been able to feel any warmth.

"Sorry, Samuel." Her voice was just barely audible." Don't come bawlin' at me - it started stormin' an' I got so scared I lost my way . . . I didn't go t' do it . . ."

Without warning, Samuel lashed out and cracked her hard across the head; Salome toppled backwards, though it was too late to dodge.

"You didn't go t' do it? Well, in God's name - thanks for tellin' me! I thought for sure you'd bumbled about, got lost an' run into th' paws of a crazy killer weasel on purpose! Don't you 'ave any good sense, Salome? "

For several moments, neither Salome nor Samuel spoke. Salome, massaging her smarting ear with one paw, stooped over the fire's embers and pretended to fan them with the other. Samuel knew that she was fighting back tears. And it was just as well that she did - Samuel didn't want to see those tears any more than he enjoyed staring at the blood spatterings on his cloak.

Then, Samuel, after a moment of hesitation, reached over and placed a paw upon Salome's shoulder.

"Look at me, Baby Sister. I know you didn't go t' do it - nobeast but an idiot would go t' do it. I know you're no idiot. You've got good sense. I just want you t' use it. Please?"

Salome hugged herself - Samuel could see that she was still quivering a little. Wordlessly, he began to stroke his younger sister's ears.

Where in all Mossflower had that scrawny, sniggering misfortune of a creature come from? Certainly, he had been some species of vermin - though it had fallen face forward into the mud after it had been knifed, Samuel had taken a glance at the ears and tail. The creature might have been a ferret or a weasel.

For seasons now, this stretch of the Woods had been almost uninhabited. But now, for the second time in their lives, Samuel and Salome would be forced to evacuate.

About seven seasons ago, Samuel, nothing but a youngster, and Salome had evacuated for the first time -had escaped the settlement at night, when even the most fretful, restless creatures had succumbed to sleep. They had left behind scores of creatures, perishing of the Black Death; the corpses of rats, whose lives the Chief himself had taken when the plague's outbreak had been discovered; the emaciated remains of the creatures who were too badly weakened, too young and bewildered, or too afraid, to make an attempt at flight and risk being caught. The privacy of the settlement had been, to the Chief and his officials, what this spot's privacy, its stream and its fruit trees were to Samuel - only even more so.

Salome had ceased her trembling now; she seemed to have relaxed somewhat. Those big, dark eyes sought to meet Samuel's. Samuel had forgotten her, as well as the weasel and his dagger; he was staring at the wall before him, as if he was reading between the fibers of that splintered, worm-bitten wood. This was something that he did often, sometimes for hours on end . . . but this morning, Salome knew that she was the cause of it.

"Samuel?"

At the sound of her voice, Samuel came back to earth. "What do you want, Salome?"

Salome gazed up at him with eyes full of earnestness. "Th' weasel didn't do nothin' t' me, Samuel. I'm all right."

These words made Samuel feel awkward. He gave her a tiny push. "I never said there was anythin' wrong with you. Here, look behind th' cot an' get that piece o' rolled-up paper for me."

Salome had to climb over the cot and its untidy clothing of quilts, before rummaging through the heap of belongings that lay behind it. It was a meager pile, and, after just a few moments, she drew out a slender stick, about which a scroll of papyrus had been rolled up and fastened.

"What's this? Has it got some sort o' writin' on it? You ain't never told me you could read an' write."

Samuel held out his paw for the bundle. "Aye, I can read an' write a bit, but I didn't write that. Now stop meddlin' with it, you nosy little pest, and give it t' me before you tear it."

As he unfolded the script, he half-smiled, remembering the old dormouse who had sold the map to him - just days after his and Salome's arrival into Mossflower. Samuel had given the old ninny a silver brooch in exchange for food supplies, had received the map as a bonus, and, to compensate for the bonus, had listened while he slavered on about compensate him for the bonus, had listened while he had slavered on about the virtues of Redwall Abbeydwellers - their kindheartedness, the generosity they extended to any needy creature who should come grovelling at their feet; the honey-sweet sermons that dripped from the lips of their wise, benevolent, hoary-headed old Abbots and Abbesses; the heavenly food, and, greatest of all, the aura of peace and contentment that perfumed every idyllic, red sandstone corner.

Thinking of it,Samuel half-expected a mouse to drop from the sky and land before him, garbed in a green habit, and beaming angelically upon him, as he relieved the young ferret of his dagger and proceeded to lecture him on how violent and unpeaceable it had been to snuff the weasel / ferret attacker out with it. Aye - Redwall Abbey was quite the utopia - until some Cluny the Scourge or some Raga Bol stormed his way in through the gates, as villains were forever doing there, according to the old mouse. Then , most likely, all of the Redwallers ran whimpering for help - usually demanding the bravery of some warlike creature, such as Martin.

Martin son of Luke, the Warrior - woodlanders were constantly bawling songs all over the Woods about him.

But, in the center of that map lay Redwall Abbey - on paper, it was nothing but a tiny square, with a peak of a tower jutting out on top. But that tiny square towered above the nearby trees - figures that resembled forked sticks - and its walls formed a protective ring around it, like a motherly embrace.

Samuel happened to glance up, and found that Salome was peering over his shoulder. He snorted. "Salome, yore nosier than a giddy squirrel, an' you can't even read."

Salome pointed to the building. "What's that - a castle?"

Samuel folded the script once more. "Aye, somethin' like that. Look, that drizzle's startin' to let up. You might as well take that pail outside and fill it up with rainwater - on second thought, I'll do it myself."

This last remark stung Salome.

She watched as Samuel took the pail to the opening of the den. "Th' water's for you to scrub yoreself with. And dont go whingin' about how cold it is, I've no time to stand about heatin' it. When yore finished, change out of that hand-me-down tunic - yore pinafore's as raggedy as an old dishcloth, but it's likely it'll look a bit more presentable to the woodlanders."

Salome stared at him, bewildered. "Woodlanders? What woodlanders?"

"We're leavin' this place," Samuel informed her brusquely. "Well, don't just sit there with yore mouth hangin' open, an' don't start askin' me a bookful o' questions. 'Urry up, wash yoreself an' leave me some of that water."


	2. Chapter Two

All about Redwall, spring's delicate bloom had ripened to the lush green and sun-gold of summertime. Noon's sun had baked those great red sandstone walls until they had taken on a hue of scarlet; and now the Abbey, perched high upon its hill, seemed sedate as an autumn leaf against all of the greenery.

Abbess Elinor, a mouse in her middle seasons, and Sister Bethelle, the elderly quirrel Infirmary Keeper, stood together in the lawn, sunning themselves. It might be said that the two were close friends - though they were not inseparable, one would seldom find either of them socializing freely with another creature.

"Brother Aaron has fully recovered from his brandy binge, Mother Abbess," Sister Bethelle said. "That hedgehog has been drinking for seasons now, but he has managed to keep the Abbey from knowing of it. Perhaps it was his own good fortune that he made himself ill this time. The Abbey hasn't had a drunkard in its Cellars since the days of Ambrose Spike!"

The Abbess nodded her agreement. "But Friar Jerome must have known of it - he enters the Cellars for beverages. Doubtless he wished to prevent his brother from being disgraced, and, although I am deeply dissppointed in our Cellarkeeper, I will honor the Friar's wishes. But, directly after lunchtime, I will approach him privately and give him the responsibility of the Cellars until further notice!"

"Speaking of which, Mother Abbess - the sun is at its peak now. It's past time for lunch to be announced! Where on earth is Marianne?"

By straining her eyes, Abbess Elinor caught sight of the aproned, brushtailed figure, making its way across the lawn. "There she is, coming now. Look at that young maid - she's so plump that she is puffing for breath at each step. That's the trouble with the creatures of this Abbey these days, shovelling down great mountains of food and getting far too little exercise!"

Marianne, the assistant cook of the Abbey, drew near. She was, indeed, a rather chubby young squirrelmaid, with large, jovial brown eyes. Setting a tray before the Abbess, she curtsied.

"Afternoon, Mother Abbess, Sister Bethelle. Friar Jerome didn't wish t' disturb you by askin' you to come t' the table, Mother Abbess, as you were enjoyin' the sun, so he sent me with food for both of you."

The Abbess cast a glance over the contents of the tray. She sniffed with disapproval. "Apple turnovers, blackberry tartlets, raspberry jam scones and summer fruit salad. All that for afternoon tea! - and after a breakfast of oat porridge, honey scones, oat cake and apple and pear salad. We'll soon have a load of great fatbeasts scurrying about this Abbey! Now, young maid, take this tray back to the kitchens straightaway, and tell the Friar to have lunchtime formally announced, as it should be. Then ask all of the Abbey creatures to wait until I attend and say the grace, instead of rushing to cram themselves!"

"Aye, marm." As Marianne prepared to take up the tray once more, she hesitated.

"Before I go, Mother Abbess . .. well, I was thinkin' the Dibbuns might like to play outside for a bit. Mightn't I bring them out for a little picnic on the lawn?"

The Abbess stared at her for one long, frosty moment, before replying.

"I hope, Miss Marianne, that you have not forgotten Sister Jane's duties as Abbey Recorder and teacher of Abbeyschool. You will have to ask her permission before you take the liberty of dragging these Dibbuns off on frivolous outings, to ensure that they do not interfere with her schedule!"

While Friar Jerome busied himself with formally summoning the Abbeybeasts and seeing that every partly-eaten dish was abandoned immediately, in order to avoid a face-to-face chastisement from the Abbess, Marianne found Sister Jane in her library.

Though the mouse Sister had held that position for as far back as Marianne could remember, she could not have been past thirty-five seasons. Raising her eyes from the tome that she had been poring through, Sister Jane greeted Marianne with a smile.

"Good afternoon to you, Marianne. It is a pleasure to see you - since you left Abbeyschool to assist Friar Jerome, I've seen very little of you."

Marianne offered her a contrite smile. "I'm dreadfully sorry, Sister Jane, marm. Work in th' kitchens 'as turned out t' be far 'arder than I figured it would."

"There's no need to apologize - every creature in the Abbey has his or her own duties." Sister Jane laid the tome aside. "What brings you here, Marianne?"

As Marianne made her picnic request, she could not help but to allow her eyes to roam over the walls - lined with book- and scroll-stacked shelves. Maianne had always been more of an industruous young creatue, not the most studious one, and she had always hated the crowded, oppressive atmosphere of the Abbeyschool room. But the library was spacious, the air was cool as a garden's, and, sitting high upon a bookshelf, framed in cherriwood, was the Portrait of the Season: the Rose of Redwall, pale as snow, coated with bits of dew.

The sound of shuffling papers brought Marianne back to earth. She colored a little, for stifled amusement was fighting to un-stifle itself at the corners of Sister Jane's mouth. "I was saying that you may take the Dibbuns out onto the lawn, so long as they are back inside within the hour - but for a moment I feared you were no longer with us. Gazing at the picture, you looked delighted enough to have sampled a spoonful of Heaven."

Abruptly, Marianne straightened up, remembering the day's duties. "I hardly know about 'eaven, marm, but I'll get a taste of somethin' unfit to say if th' Mother Abbess comes into Cavern Hole and doesn't see me there. Thank you!"

But, as she hurried out of the chamber, she laughed to herself. Sampled a spoonful of Heaven - who knew?

Cavern Hole was packed with creatures - mice, moles, squirrels and hedgehogs. The hedgehog Cellarkeeper, Brother Aaron, the Friar Jerome's brother, sat at the far end of one table, ashen-faced, but sober.

And why would he not be? He had endured one of Abbess's Elinor's tongue-lashings - which had the power to nip the most drunken wretch into sobriety.

The Abbess herself was entering now. As she crossed over to seat herself at the head table, over which she and Johndam, Skipper of otters, presided at every meal, a hush fell over Cavern Hole - although it had been almost noiseless already.

Beneath the eagle eye of the Abbess, every fidgeting youngster became still - quite motionless; every beast who had dared to whisper a jest to his neighbor clamped his mouth shut immediately.

All Abbeybeasts knew that Abbess Elinor hated nothing more than frivolous chatter, whispering, chortling, loud talking, or noisemaking of any kind. It was an unwritten law, and few creatures were unwise enough to break it.

Abbess Elinor recited the grace ."Praise is to God Who has given us this food, providing it to us without any help or power from ourselves." She proceeded with a lecture on how Almighty God had sent food to earth, and how, seeing as the good creatures did not have the power to defend their walls from enemies without resorting to Skipper Johndam and Log-a-Log (she felt that gluttony and fatness accounted for this), they should praise God, Who Alone possessed the power to create so much as a grain of wheat.

After the Abbess had challenged them all, over and over, to produce one - just _one_ - grain of wheat, and feed themselves, few of the Redwallers had the courage to do much more than pick over the good fare. So Friar Jerome and Marianne were only too glad to excuse themselves from the table, at last, and escort the Dibbuns out onto the lawn.

No sooner had those little creatures emerged into the sunlight, than a noisy, frolicsome baby rapture overtook the lawn. Abbeybabes scattered all about - chasing one another, holding food fights, shrieking and laughing.

The Friar Jerome sat beside a shrub, caressing his head. To Marianne, he remarked, "And th' Sister said these villains could stay out for an hour? Good Lord - I'll be lyin' in the Infirmary before then!"

Watching a little molemaid who was trying - in vain - to capture a butterfly, Marianne began to sing a verse that she had loved as a Dibbun

"A butterfly in spring

A golden-winged queen

Who seldom idle perches on a flower

"To caterpillars green

Sweet pollen-food she brings

In morn and evening hours

"Though she drifts gracefully

A butterfly, you see

Is busier than any other -

"Far more than you or me

Or the lazy droning-bee

All fat and yellow as butter!"

OOoooOOOoooO

The ferret siblings had been travelling since yesterday. Samuel had refused to rest for very long, until nightfall, when both young creatures had collapsed, sore and exhausted, and prepared for a long, uncomfortable night on that stony, rain-sodden ground. But Salome needn't have worried about the wetness of the ground - Samuel had told her to make a bed of dry leaves and lie upon it, to protect her clothes from the mud and soil. This had only added to Salome's discomfort. But , aside from their jar of drinking water, he had brought no water with which they might wash themselves. He was determined that they would not arrive at their destination wearing shabby, mud-covered clothes, and subject themselves to the pitying scrutiny of charitable woodlanders.

Salome knew that Samuel had gotten very little sleep - he had lain awake for most of the night, clutching his dagger, tensing up at every rustle or thump.

It was noontime, and the sun was not blisteringly hot, but Salome felt as if she had been lying in an oven for a good half-hour. Her throat was sand-dry - but there was no remedy for that, as the drinking jar was empty now - and her feet ached infernally. But, as she trudged along beside Samuel, she dared not voice any complaints.

So far, Samuel had said nothing to her about their destination, and she did not inquire. Samuel had warned her not to ask him "a bookful of questions."

She might well have been six seasons old again - a drowsy ferret kit, being shaken to wakefulness by her big brother in the middle of the night.

_"Get up! Sit up, Salome, for God's sake! We're out o' this wreck . . . "_

_"But why, Big Brother? "_

_"Just do as I say, an' lower yore God-damn voice, or you'll wake _

_everybeast! "_

Salome was jolted back to earth by the sound of Samuel's voice.

"Salome! _**HARRY-UP**_! "

It was then that she glanced up and realized that she had fallen

several feet behind Samuel. Immediately she picked up her pace, though

the heat of the sun and her own thirst did nothing to make it easier.

Samuel seized her wrist as soon as she was within reach.

"Watch where yore goin'," he gritted, " an' _stay with me_!"

Startled, Salome looked into his eyes, expecting to see exasperation, brought on by hours of travelling, heat, and an empty stomach. She noticed, for the first time that day, that Samuel's teeth were clenched as if he were poised to bite, and his eyes - they were twice their normal size, and stark enough to resemble those of a dead creature.

After a moment or two, Samuel rekeased Salome, and the young ferrets resumed walking in silence.

Samuel had no more trouble with Salome and lagging behind.

About an hour passed before Samuel spoke again.

"We 'aven't got much farther t' go. Try an' pick up yore feet, will you, Salome."

Samuel seemed to have calmed somewhat, although, as he addressed Salome, he did not look back at her.

Reluctantly, Salome tried to "pick up her feet" - whatever that meant. "Are we goin' t' see some woodlanders from th' military or somethin'?"

Samuel couldn't help but to smile at his younger sister. "No, they ain't from no military. These woodlanders live in an Abbey. It's a sort of missionary place, where creatures live together in a big buildin' an' act peaceful. I'm sure th' woodlanders couldn't care less about th' way you walk. I'm tellin' you t' pick up yore feet so you won't get dust all over yore pinafore an' make us look like a pair o' ragmuffins."

Salome stopped in her tracks.

"Samuel? You mean. . . we're goin' t' live in an . . ."

Samuel suddenly placed his paw upon her shoulder, stifling any further questioning.

"Look ahead of you, Baby Sister."

Salome followed his gaze.

They could see the crests of the red sandstone Abbey, rising up above the lush, lettuce-green hill-slopes that surrounded it. Slowly, the sun slid behind the Abbey's turrets, ashamed that it had lost much of its brightness, for the moment, and was nothing but a wan, pallid yellow disc. Before long, it would appear once more, and would repeat its descent two or three times that day, before hiding itself, for the last time, behind a cloud and waiting for duskfall. Now that the brightness of the sun had faded, the ruddiness of the sandstone had also faded. All of the Abbey took on a soft, dusty, rose-like shade of pink.


	3. Chapter Three

Standing outside of the Abbey's gates, Salome gazed upon the great red sandstone fortress - it surpassed the hugest oaks in height, and was completely unrivalled in size.

"Look, Samuel," she whispered. "It's . . . it's like a palace."

As if reading her mind, Samuel gently flicked her ear. "Stop gawkin', Salome!" he chided. "This ain't no palace, an' it ain't no rompin' grounds. This is an Abbey - a missionary place, full o' woodlanders! Don't come in 'ere an' start actin' a fool, you 'ear me? Look, I think somebeast's comin' past th' gates."

It was the Skipper - for he had heard the slamming of Samuel's stick against the gate, and was now approaching, armed with a loaded sling, so that he could see what was causing the racket. Upon sighting the two ferrets, Skipper slowed his step, until he was moving at a more deliberate pace.

Drawing nearer, he removed his sling from his shoulder. His manner of addressing the newcomers was rather terse, to put it mildly.

"Well, ye didn't come lambastin' our gates like that with no cause. Where've you come from, young 'uns, and wot do you want here? I ain't never seen no vermin about this part of the Woods 'till today."

Samuel might have spoken with courtesy, but being referred to as a "young 'un" had set him to bristling. Even from the other side of the gate, he could see that the Skipper stood several heads taller than him, and his sling, well-loaded with stones, had not been forgotten. But Samuel drew himself upright, like a soldier standing before an officer, and matched Skipper Johndam's stare.

"Well, we were born in Mossflower, sure enough - though we don't particularly make ourselves th' business of all in th' Woods. We live private, see!"

Salome frowned. _Born in Mossflower? _What on earth was Samuel talking about? But Samuel shot her a look, warning her to keep her mouth shut, and she did so.

Salome saw that the Skipper's jaw tautened. The sling began to swing, to and fro, aided by the weight of the stones.

Salome fumbled about until her paw found Samuel's, and she clutched it tightly, inwardly praying that he wouldn't go for his dagger, which would be useless in this situation anyhow.

"Live private, eh? Then wot exactly is yore business 'ere at Redwall?"

"What in all of Mossflower is going on here? Skipper, who are these two creatures?"

A female mouse strode up from behind the Skipper. Seeing as she was far shorter than Skipper Johndam, and was standing, it could be said, in his shadow, Salome had to rise on tiptoe to get a good look at her.

The mouse was not stately (even by mouse standards), and was quite slender, garbed in a habit made of some soft, pale green fabric. She possessed a rigid, austere-looking face, and when she saw the newcomers, she pursed her lips. Salome felt certain that the mouse was not unused to wearing this unpleasant expression.

"I am Elinor, the Abbess of Redwall. Who are you two and why are you standing here, shouting back and forth with Skipper Johndam? "

Samuel gave Salome's ear another gentle flick, reminding her to stop gawking. (Samuel couldn't stand it when Salome gawked; he found it embarrassing, and the fact that they were in the presence of woodlanders made it even more intolerable.) Then, stepping forward, he made an attempt at a formal bow - and, despite her apprehension, it was difficult for Salome to suppress her laughter and keep a straight face.

"Good afternoon to you, Miz Elinor. I'm Samuel, an' there's my sister, Salome."

The Abbess stared at the young ferrets for one long moment. At length, she returned the bow.

"You must call me Mother Abbess, Master Samuel. Have you come to our Abbey seeking food, healing or shelter?"

Glancing down at himself, Samuel figured that he and Salome did look bedraggled and beggarly - haply it would have been better to allow Salome to wear the hand-me-down tunic after all; at least it was still in one piece.

"Aye, marm - I suppose you could say that."

The Abbess folded her paws in a no-nonsense manner. "You suppose that I could say that? Please, Master Samuel, tell me what you wish for, and speak directly!"

Samuel shrugged. "Only t' stay at th' Abbey, for a while at least."

Skipper Johndam began to toy with his sling again. "But you told me you an' yore sister 'live privately.' What made you leave yore place, then? "

Samuel looked straight at him and lied with a stoic face. "Th' storm wrecked our den yesterday. Never was a good one. Are we welcome 'ere, Mother Abbess marm?"

Abbess Elinor pursed her lips again. "Skipper, open the gates!"

Skipper J. obeyed. As the ferret siblings entered, he spied Samuel's dagger, peering out of his tunic pocket. His paw shot out and seized the blade.

Instinctively, Samuel flinched; Salome saw that his paws were clenched. Then, he seemed to remember that he was in the presence of a woodlander Abbess, and forced himself to remain calm.

"I'll keep this with me. The creatures in Redwall Abbey are peaceful; there's no need t' bring a weapon!"

But Abbess Elinor, after carefully scrutinizing the dagger, reversed the decision. "Return it to him, Skipper Johndam. There's very little that he could do with a dagger, if he wished to."

Samuel opened his mouth to thank her, but the Abbess plunged into a sermon about peace, kindness and not harming others. After fifteen minutes, Salome began to doze off a little, but Samuel kept her awake with sharp nudges and murderous looks.

At last, Abbess Elinor assumed, quite correctly, that the guests were hungry, and she directed them to where Friar Jerome and Marianne were supervising the Dibbuns, who were all clustered around a picnic blanket. Most of the little creatures had ceased their activities, and were now gawking - as Dibbuns will - at the newcomers.

"Seeing as the gluttonous, impatient creatures who are my Abbeybeasts began eating lunch before it could be announced, I fear there will be very little food left in Cavern Hole," the Abbess informed them coolly "But I'm certain that Friar Jerome will prepare something for you."

While the Friar was preparing to escort the ferrets to Cavern Hole,Marianne took charge of the staring Dibbuns up. "Come along, you lot - you've an extra half-hour to play outside, there's no need to waste it by bein' nosy!"

Because the Abbess was present, the Dibbuns had no choice but to obey, with great reluctance.

Salome and Samuel had never entered a room that was huger than this Cavern Hole - or any building, for that matter, including Chief's manse, back in the settlement. Mice in green habits, hedgehogs, a handful of moles and squirrels, a large number of otters (who occupied a special corner of Cavern Hole) - creatures crowded every one of those immense oaken tables, eating scones, cakes and pastries that looked as if they were fit for a ducal house.

Well, actually, it could hardly be described as eating. Most of the woodlanders were picking and prodding at the food on their plates, as if they dared not eat it. Every beast seemed to be hanging his or her head, staring at the floor. The Abbeydwellers were all silent, only speaking when a platter or a jug must be passed.

"Excuse me, miss; please pass the October Ale."

"Yes, sir."

"Thank you."

There was no lively chatter. No jokes were exchanged, and nobeast was singing or humming.

One unfortunate hogmaid belched aloud. She cried, "Beg your pardon!" and glanced up, fearing that the Abbess would be standing in the doorway, armed with a sermon about table etiquettes. It was then that she - and all of the creatures in Cavern Hole - saw the two ferrets.

Spoons, forks and mugs were set aside, and, for several moments, the Abbeybeasts only stared, just as the Dibbuns had.

Abbess Elinor cast a look of withering scorn over her creatures.

"This is Samuel, and this is Salome; they will be spending a few days at the Abbey. It is high time that all of you returned to your daily tasks; you have eaten more than enough. Work will help you to shed the weight that your gluttony has, most likely, caused you to gain!"

Salome was beginning to understand why these Abbeybeasts seemed to have no appetite.

Before long, Cavern Hole was empty. Salome and Samuel seated themselves, and Friar Jerome heaped two plates with excellent food, which I will not describe for fear of annoying the Abbess.

Salome accepted her dish, and remembered to say "Thank you." Samuel accepted his, as well, though it was obvious that he had no desire to eat, despite the fact that his stomach had been empty for hours now.

"Wait a moment, missie!" the Abbess snapped, just as Salome picked up her fork. "You must say the grace before you begin eating."

Salome blinked, bemused. "Th' grace?"

Samuel closed his eyes, determined not to lose patience before the eyes of the woodlanders.

"Aye, th' grace, Salome - th' prayer you say before you eat. I taught you one. Do you remember it?"

Salome gave a self-acquitting shrug. "Oh, that. It was a pretty-soundin' piece, but 'ow was I t' know I should remember it? You taught it t' me seven seasons ago!"

Abbess Elinor's eyes widened, and Samuel cringed. Had it been that long ago?

"_Seven seasons ago_! What sort of upbringing have you received, missie? Do you know who God is?"

"'Course I know who God is!" Salome retorted, indignant. "I ain't so green."

The Abbess pursed her lips, for the third time since the ferrets' arrival. "No, missie, you are not green. The earth, which God spread out for you, is green. The trees in heaven, which awaits the good creatures, are green. That salad, which you are preparing to tear into, is green." Salome glanced down at her plate. "How could you neglect to thank Him before you begin to eat what He has provided for you?"

Salome shrugged again. "Always figured I was showin' 'ow thankful I was for th' food when I ate it all, Miz Elinor - I mean, Mother Abbess, marm."

Samuel slumped forward and rested his head on the edge of the table.

Abbess Elinor rose. "Eat quickly then. I must find Sister Jane, our Recorder. You are an ignorant, unfortunate young creature, and something must be done about this, immediately! Master Samuel, when you have finished, please assist Friar Jerome in the kitchens. A good Redwaller must always be of assistance to his fellow Abbeycreatures!"

With that, she marched out of Cavern Hole.

When the Abbess was gone, the Friar looked up from the dishes that he was gathering. He smiled at the guests.

"Learn yore prayers, mind yore manners an' eat little, an' you an' th' Abbess'll get along just fine. 'Ow old are you, Miz Salome?"

Salome polished off a wedge of nutbread. She hesitated at first, but, in the end, she returned the smile.

"About twelve seasons, Friar - or thirteen seasons at th'most."

Friar Jerome shook his head in disapproval. " 'About twelve seasons, Friar, or thirteen seasons at th'most'? Every young creature should know 'is or 'er age - there ain't no excuse for you! Me, I'm growin' so old an' fat there's no use tryin' t' keep track o' th' seasons! You - Master Samuel, stop slouchin' an' sit up straight. How old is yore sister?"

Samuel obeyed, smiling now, in spite of himself. "Salome's twelve seasons old now, sir; thirteen in autumn."

Friar Jerome came over to refill Salome's plate. "She eats like a creature o' thirteen seasons, t' be certain! My assistant, th' squirrelmaid Marianne, is around yore age, Miz Salome. Mayhap she'd like t' 'elp you with learnin' yore prayers. Can ye read an' write?"

Salome shrugged. "Can't read much, sir. I know all o' my letters, an' I can write my name an' Samuel's."

A flicker of sympathy crossed the hedgehog Friar's face, but he erased it quickly. He reached over and ruffled her ears. It was the first time that Salome had ever been touched by a creatue that resembled a ball of spikes; she had almost expected that he would prickle her. "Read, read an' read some more, missie - you'll be clever before ye know it!"

Salome made such a face that Friar Jerome broke into a smile. "Miz Marianne's just like you. A sharp little creature, but th' elders 'ad t' all but shackle her to an Abbeyschool bench t' get 'er t' learn basic readin', writin' an' figurin'. After that, she came t' th' kitchens to assist me. Ah, I s'pose young beasts are all alike, wherever ye find 'em!" He began to load the dishes into a trolley. "Don't toy with those vittles, Master Samuel. Finish 'eatin' an' come 'elp me in th' kitchen quarters."

Salome looked at Samuel. She could tell that he still wasn't overly eager to eat, and was even less enthusiastic about the chores. But he did as he was told.

Not long afterwards, Abbess Elinor returned, accompanied by Sister Jane, the Recorder and Librarian of Redwall.

Unlike the Abbess, Sister Jane was a tall female mouse, with clear, fawn-brown eyes. Salome gazed up into her face, and bashfulness overcame her. She was the most dignified-looking creature that Salome had ever seen - but then, considering that the only other "dignified personage" that she had ever seen(besides Abbess Elinor) was the Chief of her settlement, perhaps that was not saying much. But I digress.

Sister Jane seated herself. She dusted off an old tome that she had brought.

"The Abbess has told me that you know who God is, Salome. This is very good."

Salome shrugged. "Everybeast knows who God is. I mean, He's th' one wot put you on th' earth - an' yore mamma's th' one wot can take you out."

Amusement twinkled in the Sister's brown eyes, though Salome scarcely knew why. "You are right - God created every living thing. Where is God?"

Salome fidgeted in her seat.

"Well, I s'pose he's all th' way up there, watchin' over all of us, and writin' down who he's goin' t' send t' 'ellgates next.''

The Abbess stared severely across her spectacles. "'Tis only the bad creatures who go to Hellgates, young missy. If you behave yourself and follow the Abbey rules, perhaps you'll enter heaven. Do you understand?"

"Aye, Mother Abbess marm." Aye, heaven. Heaven was the nice place where you danced and sang and had all the cake and plum pudding you wished. You drank wine, as well, but this wine didn't make you drunk, because God didn't want you to be drunk.

In any case, with or without the cake and wine, heaven had to be far better than this Abbey, which was full of delicious food and drinks - and gloomy-faced, silent creatures who couldn't even enjoy it.

You only got into heaven if you were good.

Sister Jane opened the tome, slowly moving through the pages. 'Can you see God?"

Salome pondered for a bit.

"I s'pose I can't see him 'cos he's all th' way up there, but I allus fancied him as an old, wise sort of badger type with a long, grey beard . . ."

The Abbess closed her eyes and took a deep breath, though Salomescarcely understood why.

"Calm down, Mother Abbess." Sister Jane was a gentle creature, and she spoke placatingly. 'She's only a little maid. She doesn't know better.''

God, Salome soon learned, was no badger – or any type of creature. He was a – _yoo-neek _being. Salome had to ask Samuel about that "unique" word – she liked the sound of it. And it sounded pretty in Sister Jane's low, clear voice.

"And you know who the devil is, don't you?"

"I reckon that'd be Vulpuz, 'cos he's th' king o' Hellgates."

The Abbess repeated the deep-breathing exercise.

Sister Jane proceeded gently. "No, no, I mean the one who whispers to us and tells us to do bad things."

Salome toyed with her claws. "Well, I don't s'pose I'd know who that 'un is, only if I did, I'd give him th' ode of his life for th' trouble he's allus gettin' me into."

"We cannot blame our actions on the devil, Salome. He only tells us to do things – he doesn't force us to do them. If I told you to go and rob an old mousewife walking alone along the road, would you?"

She continued fiddling with her claws. "Well . . . mayhap not, if'n you just told me to like that. 'Twouldn't look right t' me. But if'n you came up close an' whispered, 'Lookit that old widow, piddlin' along th' road like that! An' all alone, too! She mustn't care much for her money. Lookit that pretty purse! a right fat one – full o' coins. That 'un's a richbeast! All you've got t' do is rush her, snatch it and run. There ain't any guards about t' stop you, and she oughter know better'n t' walk by herself on an unguarded street. Think of all th' mess you could buy!' – if it were like that, marm –if it were like that . . . I reckon I'd have a right 'ard time refusin'.''

At last, the Abbess rose from her seat. "I cannot tolerate this impudence any longer!"


	4. Chapter Four

Thus, Salome found herself in the kitchens - which might have been a pleasure, if not for the fact that she was clad in an overlarge smock, and standing over a mountainous heap of dishes.

Friar Jerome passed her a dishcloth, foamy with lathered soap. "You'd best 'urry with those dishes, Miz Salome, before evening comes. Haply this will teach you not to be saucy."

Salome made as if to protest - she wasn't to blame for admitting that she' wouldn't refuse a purse full of coins if an old mousewife didn't care for it enough to conceal it - but Samuel, working on the Friar's left, shot her a warning look.

Hellgates! Samuel did not know what she had done to irritate the Mother Abbess, but he would guess - and if she didn't keep her mouth shut, he would tear a strip off her as soon as they were out of the kitchens.

So, with a huge sigh of resignation, Salome took the dishcloth and went over to join the Friar's assistant, the squirrelmaid Marianne, at the dishbasin.

Only once had Salome come within six feet of a woodlander, before this day - and that had been six or seven seasons ago, when she and Samuel had first arrived in Mossflower, and had eaten in the home of a garrulous old dormouse. Salome had heard that squirrels were skilked tree-climbers, but this Marianne was so plump that Salome doubted she could be talented at leaping and swinging from branches. The frock she wore was a bright, sunny yellow color, defying the monotony of kitchenwork, and, although she said very little to the two ferrets, her brown eyes seemed to sparkle with merry words and unshared jests.

After a bit, Marianne began to sing. For Salome, the verse was a bit prosey, but very pretty all the same.

_From the Northlands, from the Northlands, through the mists of colder lands_

_Comes the son of Luke to green sunlit Mossflower_

_And his austere, warlike heart the welcome smiles of gentle friends_

_And the sunlight warm at our most needful hour./em_

_For the shadow, Kotir's shadow, flaunting slavery and death -_

_Flaunting as its gems two ruthless emerald eyes_

_Vows to darken, vows to smother Mossflower's own two brightest lights -_

_Its sunshine, and the flame of bravery, which should never die._

_But in Martin's heart it will reside - it must reside forever!_

_Come, hero! did it not defy the wind?_

_The cold, frost-laden wind beneath which Laterose withered, perished -_

_The Rose the warrior turned too Late from vengeance to defend._

_The Warrior stands, grief-goaded - he knows the chill of evil_

_The flame of vengeance, love's sunshine, and bravery clash within_

_But bravery and sunshine - they overcome the fire_

_And we have no Warrior, but one God to praise for this good end._

_And leaving our green sunlit woods after he helped to free them_

_Retires into the land of sunny slopes and quiet streams_

_But still Luke's son looks over us through the softer mists of time - _

_And oh! His smile is light enough to brighten all our dreams_

"That's a lovely tune," Salome remarked softly, rinsing the last of the soapsuds from a tankard. " That part where th' flower withered up an' died - it sounded a bit silly, but sad at the same time."

Marianne glanced up, as if startled at her speaking. Then she laughed aloud - breaking (much to the ferret siblings' relief) the silence in the room.

"You ninny, Laterose o' Noonvale was a livin' creature!"

Salome wrinkled her snout. "Laterose o' Noonvale? Who in 'ellgates would go about with that sort o' name? It's awful!"

"You mind yore language, missy," the hedgehog Friar rebuked her, but not fiercely. His eyes had a faraway look about them. "Laterose was the daughter of Urran Voh, leader o' Noonvale. 'Twas a pretty little place, not unlike our Abbey – quiet, peaceful an' 'appy."

At this, Samuel made a little snorting sound, though Salome hardly knew why.

The Friar went on as if he had not heard.

'Our Martin th' Warrior loved that mousemaid more'n anyone in th' world. She got her father t' let her go off with him while he was in a battle . . . an' she died in it."

"An' I don't suppose her dear Martin was Warrior enough to look after her," Samuel grated, startling his sister. "Called 'imself brave - the lily-livered coward!"

The Friar, snapped out of his reverie, turned upon him, puffing angrily like a fat, flustered old hogwife. ''You just watch yoreself, varmint. Our Martin wasn't no lily-livered coward. He looked after Miz Laterose as well as he could. 'Twas she wot decided to go dashin' out – brave an' reckless – with scarcely any experience in war, and got killed. Now, seein' as yore finished with th' dishes, you can take down that set o' tin pots and polish 'em!"

Samuel trudged unhappily off to his new task, grumbling something about free speech.

There was no more mention of Laterose or Martin till dinnertime.

OOOoooooooOOOoooo

Cavern Hole was filled with tablefuls of the famous Redwall fare, which I will not describe for fear of annoying the Abbess, who was still feeling a bit irritable.

She said the grace, which Salome found pretty although she understood just about half of it – it was all about thanking God and how God had given them the food and how they were powerless to bring food to themselves, so they should just shut up and be grateful instead of always complaining about the vegetables and herbs that didn't agree with them – or had that last been part of the sermon? Salome could scarcely tell.

At last, the meal began. Marianne was fortunate enough to be absent - as the Friar's assistant, she was allowed to eat in the kitchens with him. Once again, Cavern Hole was completely silent; the Abbeybeasts cowered beneath the frosty, contemptuous stares of the Abbess Elinor. Every creature, as he dined, was careful not to heap too much food onto his fork, or eat with too great a display of relish - anything to avoid the Abbess's wrath.

The only creatures, besides Salome, who were showing no restraint in eating were the Dibbuns. Earlier, the Friar had approached the Abbess for permission to hold a summer feast, and had been sent away, hanging his head as if he was a chastened Dibbun himself. The Abbeybabes dared to give out a few whimpers about a summer feast, but the Skipper silenced them with one gruff bark. So, the little creatures comforted themselves by shoveling down vegetable pasties, salad and mushroom soup, all the while trying not to notice the head-shaking and tut-tutting of the Abbess.

When the meal had been finished, the Abbeybeasts rose and dispersed, as silently as they had entered. All youngsters older than five seasons were put to work tidying Cavern Hole, under Marianne's supervision.

"No need t' empty th' platters an' pots out," Marianne told Salome, who was clearing leftovers from the tables. "Th' Friar'll lay out supper in a few hours - but that's mostly for the creatures who might've missed dinner. Any other beast who attends'll likely get a dirty look from Abbess Elinor."

"Well, why doesn't she just tell everybeast that's eaten already t' keep away?" Salome commented.

Marianne shrugged. "Supper is an Abbey tradition."

After this, the uneasy silence held sway once more, until the young maids headed for the kitchens, pushing food-laden trolleys before them.

As they drew near the culinary quarters, however, they halted - for they caught the sound of voices being raised. It seemed that the Friar and his brother, Aaron, were having a fine squabble.

"Aw, just give me one flask an' I'll keep t' strawberry cordial for th' rest of th' season, Jerome." It was Brother Aaron's voice - a high-pitched, piteous drawl, which sounded even more high-pitched as it rose onto a note of imploring. "I told ye a dozen times, that night I spent in the Infirmary's made a new creature out o' me. Listen, if you ever see me totterin' about drunk again, ye can declare me Outcast!"

Marianne whispered to Salome, "Brother Aaron's th' Abbey Cellarkeeper - he's in charge o' makin' drinks. Th' Abbess learned yesterday that he's been guzzlin' brandy an' gettin' himself drunk for seasons now. She's put him on probation!"

Salome's ears perked up. "Probation," she repeated. A nice, clever-sounding word. "What's probation, Marianne?"

"It means he's forbidden t' go back into th' Cellars till th' Abbess sees fit t' let him. Th' Friar's in charge of them for now!"

Salome had never gotten drunk before, but the vermin back in her settlement had done it all the time. It had never occurred to her that a creature could be punished for getting drunk. What was the point of being in charge of a Cellarful of delicious drinks if you couldn't enjoy them as you pleased?

". . . Ye ought've been declared Outcast seasons ago!" Friar Jerome was almost shouting. "Let th' Abbess tell me yore leavin' this Abbey any day now, Aaron - I'll dance a jig! 'C'mon, I'm a new creature,' ye say - you've been singin' that tune since th' day I caught ye sittin' about in th' Cellars, with a keg o' brandy an' a great big drinking ladle! Get out o' my sight, or I'll give ye a good reason t' return to th' Infirmary!"

"Aye, an' I wouldn't be surprised if ye did it. So long as I'm in disgrace with th' Abbess, ye've got the Cellars all to yoreself, ye needle-hided, throne-'opping varmint! Stick t' wot ye know best - stumping about kitchens, sweatin' over pots an' pans, an' growin' fat!"

"Stick t' wot I know best, eh? I'll give ye wot I know best! Ye spend all hours o' th' day gulpin' down th' food I toiled over an' now ye come sourin' up my kitchen air with th' stench o' yore breath - shoutin' about stickin' to wot I know best! If _you_ know wot's best for you, ye shriveled-up, ale-watered weed, you'll tote yoreself out o' here, else I just might keep my word about the Infirmary! "

The two young maids retreated to Cavern Hole - for now, even Salome had no desire to hear anymore. Marianne shook her head.

"Good Lord - now even th' Friar's in a foul mood!"

"God in 'eaven!" Salome kept her voice low, so that it wouldn't carry over into the kitchens. "I thought you woodlanders were peaceful creatures, an' didn't believe in fightin' an' name-callin'. Friar Jerome seemed like a nice sort, when he first talked t' me."

"Friar Jerome _is_ a nice creature!" Marianne retorted, with just a hint of indignation. "He's th' nicest, most kind-'earted creature you'll ever meet. He 'as his bad days, like everybeast . . . All right, he does quarrel with Brother Aaron. They fell out about his drinkin' 'abits every evenin' before th' Abbess caught him, an' they're likely t' keep fallin' out every evenin', as long as Brother Aaron's set on tryin' t' get some brandy from Friar Jerome. An' you might as well get used to it, Salome, 'cos you'll be 'earin' their yellin' every night. They're never very quiet - if th' Abbess 'ad walked to th' end of Cavern Hole any evenin' an' listened, she'd 'ave 'eard their shoutin' and name-callin' an' learned about Brother Aaron seasons ago."

After a pause, Marianne added, in a small voice, "Abbess Elinor's never . . . she's never paid much mind t' things like that, though."

OOOooooooOOooooo

Later that evening, the guilty few who attended supper were not made to feel quite so guilty after all. As it turned out, Abbess Elinor had an announcement, for which she summoned all of the Abbeybeasts (excluding the Dibbuns). Of course, Salome was there, helping Marianne to set the tables. As the creatures seated themselves, anybeast who wished to could snatch a morsel or two from the supper platters, and this misdemeanor went unnoticed.

Rising from her chair, the Abbess proclaimed, "Creatures of Redwall, I give you permission to prepare a summer feast!"

Salome, who was carrying a bread platter, came close to dropping it. She exchanged a look with Marianne - by now, both young maids knew better than to cheer, squeal, or leap about in the presence of the Abbess. But Marianne's eyes twinkled, and Salome realized that she had heard Abbess Elinor correctly.

A summer feast - in Redwall Abbey!

They scarcely heard the Abbess's speech on how she would not have allowed this nonsensical frivolity at all, but for a certain Friar who had nagged her repeatedly about the subject, and who had behaved, in her opinion, like an antsy Dibbun; nor did they tarry behind to hear the rest. As soon as all of the leftovers had been laid out, Marianne excused herself and took flight, and Salome dashed after her.

"Ooh, Marianne," she breathed, "a feast! What's a summer feast like? Will we 'ave a load of games t' play? Will there be contests, like th' ones I 'eard about? Will there be lots o' food? Will th' Abbess let us _eat_ any of it?"

The squirrelmaid laughed aloud. "Of course we'll 'ave food, an' of course th' Abbess will let us eat! You talk like somebeast 'as been starvin' you!"

Salome made a gesture of impatience. "You know what I mean, for God's sake!"

"Hush! Th' Abbess'll 'ear you an' set you t' scrubbin' floors. Wait till we're in th' chamber!"

Samuel had already retired to the bedchamber that he would share with Salome. He was sitting upon the edge of his new mattress, admiring the cool, white linen sheets, when the door swung inward and Salome and Marianne burst into the room. The young creatures scrambled up onto the other bed, joined paws and began to bounce up and down, scattering quilts and headcushions everywhere.

"We're goin' t' 'ave a summer feast! We're goin' t' 'ave a summer feast! We're goin' t' 'ave a summer feast! We're goin' t' 'ave a summer feast!"

Samuel glanced from face to face. "Summer feast? What in all of Mossflower are you two yellin' about? Stop it - yore wreckin' th' room!"

Marianne pulled away and jumped down from the bed, breathless and giggling. Samuel had been inside of this Abbey for hours now, and this was the second time he had heard any creature laughing aloud. "Oh, heavens! Supper must be almost over, I've got t' go an' 'elp Friar Jerome tidy up or th' Abbess'll come after me. See you in th' mornin'!"

Within seconds, she was gone. Salome clutched her older brother excitedly.

"They're goin' t' 'ave a feast, Samuel! A summer feast, like th' ones that dormouse told us about!"

Samuel hugged back a little, smiling at his sister's eagerness, before moving her off. He watched as she nestled her cheek against a plump, downy-filled headcushion.

"Are you goin' t' stand there all night playin' with the pillow or are you goin' t' sleep with it?"

Salome chucked the headcushion at him. "You never want t' 'ave a bit o' fun, Samuel."

Samel fired the pillow back at her. "If sittin' up all night an' not wakin' up till noon tomorrow sounds like fun t' you, go ahead. Then th' Abbess can tear you t' pieces with those dirty looks of hers an' a speech about laziness!"

At the mention of the Abbess, Salome remembered the question that she had intended to ask Samuel.

"Samuel? What does _yoo-neek m_ean?"

Samuel gave her an odd look. "'Unique'? If somethin's _unique_, it's special - like nothin' else in th' world. Why?"

Salome came to sit beside him. "Oh, so _that's _what it meant. Now I know why th' Abbess got all mad at me when I -" She cut herself off, realizing that she had blundered. If she had clapped a paw over her mouth, she couldn't have looked guiltier.

_Oh, Hellgates_, Samuel thought. " '_When you_' what, Salome?"

Salome squirmed a bit. "Don't start shoutin' at me, Samuel. Th' Abbess asked me if I could see God, an' I told her what I figured 'e looked like.''

"Salome, what in Hellgates . . .? "

"It ain't my fault I thought o' him as an old badger in th' sky with a beard. I was fair mortificated."

Samuel was thrown into utter confusion.

"You thought o' him as . . . _what_? An' . . . _mortificated_?"

"Aye - _mortificated_. That's 'ow th' Mother Abbess said she'd feel if any of her creatures was as ignorant as me. Nice word, eh?" There was a note of pride in Salome's voice, which Samuel promptly crushed.

"It's _mortified_, Salome. Not _mortificated_. An' right now, I'm probably th' most mortified creature in all o' Mossflower!" Salome flinched. "Seriously, Salome! A badger in th' sky? I'm sure I taught you better'n that!"

Salome blinked at him. "But I don't remember you teachin' me anythin' about God - except for that bit of a prayer you taught me when I was a kit."

It was Samuel's turn to cringe, as he realized that Salome was right - he had never taught her much in the way of religious lore.

He had never tried to teach her to read or write, either. He was just barely literate himself. Samuel could never have imagined his sister, a little ferretmaid, growing up to be some taut-faced, habit-wearing, prayer-chanting creature - he snickered at the thought - and he had never expected her to become as clever as any bookwormish woodlander youngster, either. But, even back in the settlement, he had always been vaguely aware of the fact that most of the other little ferrets, weasels and stoats were ahead of Salome in many ways. Samuel had always figured that his baby sister was just a bit "slow."

On one occasion, Samuel had read a story to little Salome, about a powerful badger king and an evil stoat. And every night, for seasons afterwards, Salome would besiege Samuel just as he was preparing for bed, and beg him to read that story again. As far as Samuel could remember, he never did so, but this had not discouraged Salome in the least.

And then, when she was six seasons old, they had fled from the settlement, and had left all books behind.

Now Samuel began to wonder. if he was to blame for Salome's "slowness." He had never, ever wanted his sister to be slow . . .

"Samuel?" Salome nudged him. "Samuel? Are you mad?"

Samuel flicked a quilt at her. "Why would I be mad? Shut yore silly little trap an' let me go t' sleep. I'm right worn out from 'avin' t' scrub tose confounded pots. You can box my ears if'n you ever hear me talkin' about their Martin th' Warrior again!"

Salome fell asleep long before Samuel did. Sitting upon the edge of the bed, Samuel reached over and stroked the young ferretmaid's head.

In about a season, Salome would be the age that Luzi had been when she passed.

And Luzi would have been a young adult ferret, within a few seasons; but the death of her father - the only parent she had known, and one of the plague's earliest victims - had left her with a perpetual, child-like bewilderment in her eyes.

Her intuition had belied those eyes, however, for she had seemed to sense that Samuel was planning to flee, with Salome, and only waited for the first opportunity. And she had sensed that he would urge her to flee with them.

"Don't go now, Samuel," she would say, unexpectedly. "Don'ttry an' run off now. Wait for me."

Ad, like a little fool, he had waited. Samuel uttered a mirthless laugh. Like the oaf he was, he had sat about, watching bump after ink-black bump appear beneath her fur, had watched her grow thin and haggard. How long had Samuel obeyed her and sat waiting, like a dimwitted dog waiting for its walk? Of course, till the day he had entered her den and found fleas forming hills over her corpse, and, beneath her headcushion, a scroll of papyrus that, upon being unfolded, read:

_Luzi, wrap the ring in this letter and leave it beside your cot for me. He'll have no need of it, sitting around here until he dies. Then, you must wait. Within days, I'll have found a safe place for us, and I'll send for you and take you out of this sick-pit. _

_Signed, Jamar_

It was then that Samuel had remembered the weasel Jamar, who had vanished some days ago and whom he had assumed was dead. He also remembered that the Chief had announced the disappearanc e of a ruby ring only weeks before; but, other than to wonder how a creature could make a broadcast of a ring while beasts were dying, he had thought little of it.

Then Samuel had retreated to his den, and, hours later, found a flea bite on his wrist. That was the night that he had fled with Salome.

Samuel shifted the sleeping Salome, so that he could pull the edge of the blanket from beneath her. Huh, "don't go now - wait for me." If they had "waited" any longer, the only "safe place" they would have had was a cozy berth in Dark Forest.


	5. Chapter Five

Although Salome had seldom ever been timely about retiring to bed, and

had never been an early riser, the excitement of the past night had

changed this. An hour before dawn, the young ferret-maid was up and

roaming - glad to be free to explore the colossal Abbey without being

obliged to hear a sermon at every corner.

Having listened to Abbess Elinor taking on about Great Hall, Salome had

pictured a stuffy, noiseless, library-like chamber, liberally decorated

with book-weighted shelves and scholarly, stern-faced mice in flowing

green habits.

As Salome entered, a cool draft met her face, as refreshing as a splash

of water - all remaining drowsiness vanished, and, of a sudden, she

experienced a sort of exhilaration, not unlike the feeling of a

creature wandering through an orchard. And when she laid her eyes upon

the tapestry, she knew that this visit had not disappointed her.

The mouse could not be very young - for maturity teemed his height and

build - and, though the strokes of the dye-brush had captured the

pristine, starlike light of his blade, its shine seemed to be casting a

weird pallor across his face, as was not unusual in knightly portraits.

But in those dark, grey-tinted eyes, there still lingered a fresh

juvenal luster. This tapestry must have been woven centuries upon

centuries ago - but Salome swore to herself that the luster of those

eyes would never grow stale.

"He's either a knight or a prince," she said aloud, but softly. "No way

that creature could be real. I don't have no need of readin' - God's

name!" (This was said even more softly, for fear that Abbess Elinor was

lurking about, unseen, ready to chastise her for it.) "God's name! Thi

is as good as any fairy tale!"

Out in the orchard, it seemed as if Nature itself had strewn out

ornaments for the festive day: every treebranch was weighted with lush,

dew-diamond encrusted greenery, and clustered with handkerchief-white

and blush-colored blooms; tiny, unripe apples, and ruby-red cherries,

peered out frombetween the leaves, like the faces of babes beneath

bonnets.

In the shade of those trees, white-clothed tables had been laid out.

The Abbess had prepared a strict seating arrangement; elders were

seated at this table, youngsters at that table, Dibbuns at another

table, and so on. The creatures were not to leave their respective

tables or mingle with those of other tables, until she hd spoken the

grace. Though it was

nearly noontime, because the festive preparations had kept the

Abbeycreatures occupied, they now sat about, eating a late breakfast.

They were all silent; if anything, the importance of the day and the

rarity of the occasion had made them all more solemn and decorous than

ever.

The Abbess (at the head of one of the elders' tables) regarded the

breakfasting creatures as if they were squandering valuable time - and

valuable food supplies - by taking a meal although they would soon be

feasting. At last, when every bowl of gluttony had been emptied, every

shameful cup drained, and every fork and spoon laid aside, the Abbess

rose to speak the grace. Salome could not help but to feel impressed,

even a little moved, by the Abbess's words - she went on about the

simple, colorful jewels of fruit; the sweet silver of dawn mist;

the humble gold of summer sunshine; and prayed that these would

remain the only precious things that Redwall Abbey ever needed.

Then, as Salome had anticipated, she began to exhort all of the

creatures to avoid excessive gluttony, to show their appreciation to

the Friar who had borne the brunt of the toil in the kitchens, who

endured this unending task, day and night, only to see the fruits of

his labor vanish before the insatiable appetites of inconsiderate,

thoughtless creatures.

By the time that good mouse had concluded her feast day sermon, every

beast present had bowed a chastened head. In the silence, Marianne

excused herself from the youngsters' table and went to assist the

Friar. Soon, trolleyfuls of wonderful fare which I will not describe

were making their way between the tables.

Salome retreated to a corner of a quieter table, mostly occupied by

some of the oldest Abbeybeasts, and enjoyed a bowl of mixed-fruit

trifle. After all, there was very little else to do.

After a bit, Marianne wandered over and seated herself across the table

from the ferret-maid, with her trifle.

Both were quiet as they spooned their dessert.

"Why d'you look so queer in th' face?" Marianne inquired of Salome.

'I ain't queer in th' face.''

'Yes, you are. I ain't blind.''

'No, I reckon you can see." Salome gave a little smile, and prodded at

the trifle with her spoon.

'That mouse creature – th' one in th' big pretty picture, holdin' th'

lovely sword with the rich-lookin' hilt stone. That's one big, pretty

red stone! So I figgered as he must be a richbeast to go around wavin'

about blades like that. Th' Abbess she got bristled up and she told me

that creature was yore Martin th' Warrior an' he wasn't no richbeast,

he was a warrior. She started slaverin' some fairy tales about metal

from a star an' a big Badger King. It all sounded a bit off, an' so I

reckoned I'd go find this Martin th' Warrior an' ask him myself where

he really got th' blade from. Then I got dish-washin' duty 'cos th'

Abbess reckoned I was callin' her a fibber – an' along with that, she

told me th' Martin creature was long dead."

"Of course he's dead. You didn't expect him to just be walkin' about

amongst creatures like us, did you? Fancy what he'd think about us!"

The squirrelmaid laughed a little at the idea.

Salome managed another small smile. "I guess not . . . but . . . I mean

. . . it just don't . . . keepin' a picture up on th' wall of a

deadbeast th' same as if he was livin' . . .It just don't look right."

Marianne bristled. "And why don't it look right? Tryin' t' say our

Abbey artists is daft?"

Salome snorted. "Good Lord! you Abbeybeasts is prickly as shrews about

yore heroes'n'legends, ain't you?" Marianne relaxed, and both young

maids laughed.

'No, I ain't sayin' yore artists is daft. It's a lovely picture – looks

most real t' me. An' that's what ails me about it. Lookin' at a picture

real as that – of a creature like that –an' knowin' he's dead . . . It

sort o' saddens me an' spooks me an' thrills me all the same."

"That's what th' tapestry's for," Marianne pointed out. "It sort o'

makes us think . . . about God an' heaven an' dyin' an' such . . .

makes us think more'n' any o' th' Mother Abbess's ole sermons. I gather

there's creatures as dreams o' Martin – though I ain't never been one

of 'em nor known anyone who was. Come on now, let's liven up a bit an'

have some more t' eat. Hardly any use in sittin' about lookin' gloomy

as it ain't everyday we get a feast.'

The two young maids strolled off, paw in paw, with Marianne singing:

_When fair heaven sends its daily boon to earth - the silver dawn_

_God's silver-mist - the only silver soft enough to breathe_

_The charity coins that no one hand may cast away with scorn_

_And the string-free diamonds do encrust the velvet green of leaves_

_Ethereal maids, sky-ashen-cheeked, in rose and lavender gowns_

_With trains that vanish just as they appear_

_Almost unseen, on high they lurk, not deigning to step down_

_Save unto those who wish to see and hear._

_And if you wish to see and hear, my child_

_You'll catch melodies you've never heard before_

_Songs betraying the mundane and simple dawn-jewels_

_As no more than one of heaven's humblest doors._

_And if you will listen carefully, my child_

_You'llhear, ever so faintly, dirges of the new_

_Not fresh in seasons now - but aged in earthly years_

_Who have not yet joined __**them**__, though they've passed from me and you._

_But if you listen openly, my child_

_A brighter song, more like a chant, you'll hear_

_A happy chanted eulogy of neighbors_

_Retired knights, in palace-clouds laid near -_

_Retired knights! the elders of the Garden_

_And every morn, their medals are renewed_

_As the gentle young sky-maidens sing their praises_

_Tales of deeds, however ancient, and forever fresh and true._

_Do you wonder that they chant praise-laden fables_

_Of the days of creatures still - with them - alive?_

_Would you wonder still, my child, if only you could see_

_The undying, awed love-luster in their eyes?_

_- Just as your eyes grow bright, my child, when falling on your mother_

_Save that __**these**__ joys shall neither fade nor die . . ._

No sooner had thecAbbess's sermon come to a close, than Samuel had

risen and excused himself from the table.

If there was one thing upon which he and Abbess Elinor must agree, it

was that there was no point in spending all hours of the day lined up

at a table, cramming down platterfuls of food like trough-fed pigs - he

hadn't seen a single creature singing, frolicking, dancing or even

laughing. Huh - Redwall feast, indeed! If this was an example of a

Redwall feast, then he and Salome would have been just as well off

going out into the mid of the Woods, and stuffing themselves with

mountainous heaps of tree-fruit, till they fell ill. Only once could

Samuel remember doing anythingvremotely similar to that.

It had been back in the settlement, while Chief and the elders had been

preparing to hold a conference. Like the little oafs they had been,

Samuel and Luzi had felt certain that no creature would be out to

sentry the foraging grounds. Together, they had managed to slip,

unseen, around the back of the meetinghouse, and, armed with baskets,

had gone for the fruit trees. They had intended to gather as much fruit

as they could carry and steal back to Samuel's home den with all haste

- but, after days of sweltering summer sun, the sweet, dew-perfumed

fragrance of strawberries had been irresistible, and both had fallen to

gorging themselves.

By the time they had finished, they had been so occupied with wondering

how they would tote their plunder back to the denwith such hellish

stomschaches, that they had not noticed the shadow of the weasel

sentry, Raaji, emerging nearby, until they had already been cornered.

"Th' Chief's yore uncle, Miss, but I doubt he gives a stone's worth

whether you live or die," Raaji had said, eyeing Luzi. "An' I doubt

he'd give even that much to know 'ow yore father'd feel about yore

dyin'. Even so, he wouldn't take kindly to my steppin' 'igh an' slayin'

you myself.I'd 'ave to turn you in to him for you t' get yore just

desserts. Now I ain't that cold-'earted, so I'll let you off this once

- but I don't want to see yore 'ide about 'ere again - or yore little

friend's." For once, it had relieved Samuel to be spoken of as if he

was not present.

They'd been given the ten-count ultimatum and had taken off like

racers, knowing that the creature still in sight would be brought down

with an arrow and dragged to the Chief. Raaji's reputation in archery

was a good one.

Remembering it, Samuel laughed. After he had egged her on to perform

that stunt h,ow could he not forgve Luzi for risking his and Salome's

lives?

Skipper Johndam came over, bearing a mug of October Ale.

"Morning, mate. Well, this is certainly one o' the quietest feasts I

ever attended -though, seein' as we aint had a feast in more than six

seasons, I suppose I can't afford to b choosy."

Samuel shrugged, returning the uncomfortable smile. He had not

exchanged a casual word with the otterChief - or with any woodlander,

for that matter, besides the Friar and the squirrelmaid Marianne -

since his arrival at the Abbey. "No, mate, I suppose we can't afford t'

be choosy."


	6. Chapter Six

Unable to think of anything more to say, Skipper Johndam sipped October Ale, and Samuel, unable to think of anything else to stare at, watched him sipping it.

After a while, the Skipper gestured, with his mug, toward the Dibbuns' table. "Huh, look at 'em - still as stones. You'd never 'ave thought that only yesterday, when Miss Marianne took 'em out to play, they were scamperin' about, hootin' an' screechin' and ignorin' poor Friar Jerome. When I 'eard aboutit, I told all th' two-faced little brats off! "

Samuel shrugged again. "I should know, mate. Was puttin' up with Salome since I was a youngster. 'Ave any babes of yore own?"

Skipper shook his head. "No, and with th' state th' Abbey's in today, I wouldn't want to 'ave one. My younger brother, Jamire, plans to marry an ottermaid when th' crew comes t' spend this winter at th' Abbey. Th' Abbess says she prays every night that th' offspring they bear will grow to be more courageous, less lazy an' less gluttonous than th' youngsters we 'ave now."

Samuel watched Marianne, who was making an effort to rejuvenate the Dibbuns, by singing the "Butterfly in Spring" verse. Before long, however, the little creatures were laughing so uproariously that Marianne could scarcely hear her own voice - for Salome was standing in the background, performing what she thought was a theater-worthy pantomime of a soaring butterfly.

When the performance came to an end, the Abbeybabes flocked about the two young maids, clamoring for an encore. Ironically, Salome was the one who seemed to be disgruntled.

"I don't see wot could be so funny. I think I did that beautifully!"

Marianne, laughing, shoved her playfully. "Oh, stop your moanin' - at least th' Dibbuns were amused. Let's hurry off before they start t' mob us."

Salome and Marianne made a dash for the Abbey pond, with nearly a score of Dibbuns in pursuit. Samuel could not help but to smile at the sight. "Yore Miss Marianne 'as a nice voice, eh, Skipper?"

Skipper chuckled. "Aye, it was sweet to 'ear, 'til Miz Salome spoiled it. Think ye could do better, mate?"

Samuel stared after the little shadows, slipping, skidding, and then vanishing against the sunlit greenery. _This warmth must've cast some sort o' magic spell on us - couldn't see myself sittin' here, tossin' jokes back an' forth with Skipper Johndam!_

"No, I ain't no singer, Skipper - yore eardrums'd be damaged for life!"

And so it was. Though merriment was slow i n the earlier parts of the day, by eveningtime, all had grown brighter.

By then, every grown creature had retired to Cavern Hole, having had more than his / her share of food. There was still very little open jollity to be seen - but smiles were everywhere, lively, jest-filled chatter was exchanged, and not a sullen face lay in sight. Like a handful of fairy dust, the beauty of a warm, starlit summer night had transformed them.

The Dibbuns, however, had assembled in Great Hall, where Sister Jane was seating herself. Salome made herself comfortable against the wall, beside Marianne.

It was Story Hour! The little creatures clustered about the Sister's chair, almost (but not quite) wriggling with excitement. Salome was just as enthusiastic as they were, for, although she had never been much of a reader, she had always been fond of stories - so long as they weren't longwinded, overly wordy ones, but, seeing as this was a tale intended for Dibbuns, that was no great worry.

The "blue storybook", as the Abbeybabes called it, was, perhaps, the most beautiful book that Salome had ever seen. It wore a sapphire-colored, velveteen cover, lined with golden-threaded letters.

Unable to contain herself, the young ferret-maid demanded, "What story are you about to read, Sister Jane?"

Sister Jane, leafing through the tome, glanced up from a page. Her brown eyes twinkled. "This has always been your favorite, Marianne - Akil and the Ghosts.

Once, on an autumn day, when the sky was crisp and bright, the fields around the Abbey were golden and the trees were laden with amber brown and scarlet, a little weasel named Akil came to the gates, begging for food and shelter.

"Please, kind sir, ' he said to the Abbot, 'you've been given a plentiful harvest this year. Give me some of that harvest, and share the warmth of your fireside with me, for I am cold and hungry.'"

Inwardly, Salome cringed. Had she and Samuel sounded as piteous as that whinging little urchin, only a day before?

"Of course, " the Sister continued, "the Abbot could never turn away a creature in need. 'How is it that we are gathering to celebrate a season of peace and plenty, ' he wondered, 'while, just outside of our walls, creatures endure poverty and starvation? '

"To the little weasel, he said, 'You are welcome into our Abbey, my child, and you are welcome to what it yields! '

"Now, was that little weasel grateful for the Abbeycreatures' kindness? Not one bit! No sooner did he set footinto the Abbey, than he sniggered - quietly, so that no one would hear.

To himself, he said, 'Ah, look at those beautiful colored windows! The creatures of this Abbey are wealthy indeed. I will find many valuable things to steal from them.'

"The little weasel was given food and a bed in the dormitory. Before he retired, he thanked the goodbeasts and pretended to wipe away a tear of gratitude.

"The next morning, the Friar went to the kitchens and began to count his silverware.

'I say, ' he cried, 'at least half of my forks are gone! "

Salome would have sworn aloud if she could have. _Hellgates, I won't 'ave no luck if these Abbeycreatures count that well! _

Apparently, Akil wasn't half as clever as the Sister sought to convince the Dibbuns that he was. He got caught red-pawed, and was given a ton of dishes to scrub. The very thought of a Redwall Abbey-style dishwashing sentence was enough to put Salome off of stealing for the next five seasons. But Akil, oaf that he was, stole two times after, and the disgruntled Abbeycreatures decided to end his thieving once and for all. One night, just before Akil retired to bed, the Abbot stole into his bedroom, hung ghost-figured white sheets over the walls, darkened the room, hid the candlesticks and pushed the curtains aside, allowing the moonlight to seep in and produce a "ghostlike" effect. When Akil entered his room for the night, the Abbot secretly jammed the door shut to prevent him from escaping. In the morning, the Abbot came to unjam the door, released Akil and lectured him on all of the evil souls who were roasting in Hellgates. From that day on, Akil was a reformed creature - much to the Dibbuns' delight.

The Sister rose now, yawning.

"Its past your bedtime, little ones. Don't pout; the feast will continue tomorrow - but only if you promise to behave and take your baths like good little creatures."

Within seconds, Sister Jane, Marianne and Salome found themselves standing in the middle of a completely Dibbunless Great Hall. Marianne laughed. "They had more fun this eve than they"ve 'ad in their lives! "

After a hesitation, Salome peered up into the Sister's gentle face - whereupon it became gentler.

"What is it, little one? "

"Sister Jane, marm. . . " Here Salome hesitated again. "I was thinkin' - why in all o' Mossflower did th' weasel go an' steal things, like silver spoons? They're right pretty t' look at, but they ain't worth a bit if you don't sell "em - and he couldn't 'ave 'ad anybeast to sell 'em to."

No sooner had she relieved herself of this comment, than she expected to be berated for asking nonsensical questions about a Dibbuns' nursery tale, for displaying a lack of "good sense", as Samuel would have said.

But the Sister shook her head slowly.

"Little one, Akil was a real, living creature. And every bit of that story was true - except for its ending!"

.


	7. Chapter Seven

21Author's Note: The chapter introducing the ferrets to Redwall will need alot of revision. I'm going to revise it as soon as I can. Thank you so much for your suggestions and comments!: ) Remember, they always help me to become better.

Not long after, Sister Jane retired to bed, leaving the young maids alone in Great sat side by side, reclining against the coolness of the wallstones.

Without turning her head, Salome remarked, "Well, it wasn't so bad, was it?"

After a moment of silence, Marianne said, "It was nice - seein' th' Dibbuns 'appy." Her voice bore an odd, wistful note.

"What did th' Sister mean? About Akil?"

Marianne began to toy with the sleeves of her pinafore.

"I wasn't aught but a Dibbun then, so I don't remember much - mostly what th' Sister told me. There was a youngish weasel - about my age - who called 'imself Akil. Told th' Abbess he was starvin', an' she let him in. But no sooner did he set foot into th' Abbey than he started up thievin'. Th' Abbess never caught him red-pawed, but she knew as well as anybeast else that he must've been guilty. Still, she said it'd be unjust to punish him without evidence. But soon th' Abbeybeasts were grumblin' an' th' Abbess knew she 'ad t' take some sort o' action. Then one morning, Akil just strode up t' th' Abbess, confessed, an' returned th' stolen things. He seemed so broken up that th' Abbess 'ad to give him another chance." Marianne paused for a moment. "An' a few days later, they all woke t' find th' varmint had run off. But he didn't take a bit of silver or anythin' valuable with him - leastways, not anythin' the creatures noticed. It was a Dibbun he took - a little squirrelmaid named Fainlie. I remember she was a bit older than I was, an' th' night before Akil took her, he was in charge of puttin' us t' bed. Fainlie wouldn't lie down - kept rompin' and skippin' and bouncin' about the room. An' Akil just stood there, smilin', like it didn't trouble him."

About an hour later, Marianne and Salome visited the kitchens, where Friar Jerome had finished the dishwashing and was now sitting beside the fire, enjoying a well-deserved rest. He had had to prepare mountains of food for the festive tables (all the while fretting over the possibility that it would fall to waste, or that too much would be eaten and the Abbess would lodge a complaint against him - which of the two would be worse, he could not be certain) and manage the Cellars in the indisposed Brother Aaron's stead. Now, catching sight of the two young creatures, the good hedgehog Friar waved the dishcloth that he had been using as a fan.

"Evenin', Marianne an' Miz Salome. Now don't come with yore dancin' an' whoopin' an' shoutin' an' leapin' about. My pore 'ead feels like a stone - an' we 'ave hours o' work ahead of us tomorrow!"

My 'ead would feel just as bad, thought Salome, if it was full of spikes and needles like a pincushion.

Going over to the Friar's side, Marianne embraced him carefully,doing her best to avoid his spines. "You poor old creature, there's no need to cook a new spread everyday. We've enough food t' last three days. It will save us a heap of toil."

Samuel, who was returning wit a cauldon that had just been emptied of dishwater, added under his breath, "Aye, an' it'll save th' Abbess a lot o' preachin' about gluttony an' extravagance! "

The Friar heaved himself upright long enough to glare in his direction. "Don't you dare let me hear you speak a word of disrespect about th' Abbess of Redwall, lad, or I'll 'ave you polish this kitchen from top t' bottom!"

Samuel slumped into a chair, giving another one of his under-the-breath sermons about free speech. Friar Jerome yawned. "Well, what do you young 'uns need?"

Marianne adopted a studiedly nonchalant manner; she managed a smile. "We only came t' ask you if we might 'ave a basket o' sweetmeats t' take t' Muryet."

Friar Jerome stared hard at both young faces, and found nothing but earnestness. After a few moments, his expression softened.

"All right, missie, but mind yore manners an' be careful."

While Marianne busied herself with the basket, Samuel excused himself, and gestured for Salome to follow him out of the kitchens.

When Samuel felt certain that they had a small amount of privacy, he hissed, "Wot in 'ellgates are you doin', pokin' about with that woodlander-maid, Salome? Tryin' to bribe some old mousewife who says she can frighten off demons?"

Salome snorted. "In an Abbey? I'm just goin' with Marianne t' see some creature who's always shut up in a gatehouse. She ain't no madbeast - just a squirrelmaid whose sister got kidnapped when she was a babe."

No sooner had she spoken the words, than she cringed, expecting to receive an earful about sticking her snout into crannies that it didn't belong in.

Samuel was quiet for a bit.

Then he said, "Her sister was kidnapped, eh?"

"Aye." Here, Salome dared to cast a glance up into his face. "Samuel . . .?"

Samuel gritted his teeth, without warning. "Go on, you little ninny, do wot you want. Just don't go actin' a fool an' gettin' yoreself in trouble. If you do, you'll be th' one wot's stuck in th' mud, nobeast else is goin' t' get 'imself stuck along with you an' you'll be lucky if anybeast pulls you out."

dN


	8. Chapter Eight

21"Good evenin' to you, Muryet. We saw you didn't come out for th' feast, so we brought you some sweetmeats."

Marianne tried to cram as many words into one breath as she could, for

she could see that Salome was determined not to die of

gatehouse-dust-suffocation, and she would not shame her by seeking to appear a martyr.

Though Sister Jane had abandoned the gatehouse several seasons ago, the

scroll-mountains and tome-hills had not - an inch-thick layer of lint

coated each one, just as snow would cover a mountain peak.

Muryet was sitting cross-legged in the center of a scattering of tomes.

The young squirrelmaid could not have been older than Salome by more

than three or four seasons, but her scrawny, dried-twig figure made her seem like an ancient creature.

At the mention of "feast, " she seemed to overcome her initial

bewilderment, and gave the visitors an uncertain smile. "Good evening to you, Marianne - and, er . . .".

"Salome. Shes goin' t' be stayin' at th' Abbey," Marianne reassured her.

"Good evening to you, Miss Salome." She watched as Marianne set the

basket before her. "My goodness, a feast! The last time that we had a

feast, I was so small, I can scarcely remember it."

"No, we 'ad a feast last winter, " Marianne reminded her, gently.

"Remember th' little cake Friar Jerome baked for you? "

Salome was as surprised as Muryet was confused. "Good Lord! Was it that

long ago? Samuel 'ad me thinkin' you Abbeybeasts 'eld a feast every

season. OW! " Marianne had nudged her sharply.

"We only came t' bring you th' sweets.. We'll be 'eadin' off t' bed

now, if you need rest. We 'ope t' see you tomorrow."

But Muryet had heard none of this - the sight of certain sweetmeats

which I will not describe for fear of annoying the Abbess had

transformed her completely. With a whoop of delight, she snatched the paper wrapping apart.

"Oh, honeyed nut clusters! Dear old Friar Jerome - he remembered that these were my favorite!"

Soon Marianne and Salome, having forgotten their funereal decorum, were

upon the floor, giggling uncontrollably. In her eagerness, Muryet had

crammed more sweets into her mouth than she was able to chew at once,

and her cheeks resembled those of a hamster. Not that either of the two

onlookers had ever laid eyes upon a hamster before, but after this

sight, they felt as if they would have no need to.

With an effort, Muryet swallowed. Far from being offended at the laughter of the others, she smiled herself.

"I suppose my eyes were a bit bigger than my mouth. Or was it 'my eyes

were bigger than my stomach'? Oh, dear, I can't remember for the life

of me - I don't see many phrases like that in the tomes! "

Salome 's eyes swept over the mountain range of books. "Are you sayin'

you sit about all day readin' these? " The very thought sent a tiny

spearhead of pain through her skull. (Or was it the dusty air that was bringing on the headache?)

Now it was Muryet's turn to laugh. "What's better to do, Miss Salome,

when you've been sleeping in the gatehouse for the past eight seasons? "

"The past eight seasons!" Salome exclaimed (oblivious of Marianne, who

was giving her a warning look). "Did you get on th' Abbess's bad side or somethin'?"

Muryet recoiled, aghast. "What on earth do you mean? Abbess Elinor is

the gentlest, most kindhearted creature in all of Mossflower!"

Salome thought of the Abbess's verbal ferrulings, in which "gluttony"

and "extravagance" seemed to be her favorite words. "Aye, " she said,

"th' kindest, gentlest creature in all o' Mossflower."

Muryet beamed, relieved. "See, didn't I tell you that you would find

her to your liking, before you even stepped into this Abbey? Of course,

you didn't believe me. If the Abbess was a bit - er - unhappy for a

while, it was only because of some misfortunes that had befallen us.

Your verminy friends mustve given you the wrong idea about our beloved

Abbess - but its no wonder they have low opinions of others, being the nasty creatures that they are!"

By now, the first parcel of sweetmeats was nearly empty. Glancing over

the basket, Salome saw that there was a variety of candied fruits and

honeyed nuts - not a single cake, tart or pastry was in sight. Friar

Jerome must have known Muryet's sweet preferences very well.

Muryet picked the last few nuts from a corner of the parcel. "Dear me,

all of this sugar has made me deathly thirsty. I'm afraid I drank all

of the October Ale the Friar sent me for breakfast."

Marianne was poised to suggest that, after downing "all of that sugar",

Muryet should be content with a drink of water. (Survival necessitated

that she kept a store of water somewhere in this little hermitage..)

But Muryet wore such a plaintive expression, that Marianne yielded.

"Salome and I will fetch you a bit of cider, Muryet."

Outside of the gatehouse, Salome and Marianne walked slowly, breaking

foot-paths through the dew-sodden grass, their paws intertwined.

"Marianne, we ain't trudging all the way back t' th' kitchens, are we? Samuel was actin' queer and shoutin' at me. God's name, I 'ope she comes

out tomorrow - we can't spend th' next two feast days waitin' on her paw an' foot!"

Marianne nudged her. "Keep yore voice down. No, there's bound t' be some drinks left out in Great Hall. You pray t' God she doesn't come out. Th' longer she stays in there, the better!"

"Why?"

Marianne kept her eyes upon the path before her.

"After . . . after what 'appened t' 'er sister, th' little squirrelmaid

Fainlie, th' Friar took pity on Muryet. Like I said before, I was too

little to remember Fainlie or Akil much, but I do remember I was fair

blazin' over 'ow much pettin' Muryet got from Friar Jerome - no doubt

she deserved it, but she got very little of it from anybeast else.

Sister Jane says th' Mother Abbess was a bright, mellow creature before

Akil took Fainlie - an' she mustve been, 'cos if she'd been th' way she

is now she'd 'ave shown that varmint th' door th' first time 'e stole!

But that mellowness was gone with th' wind by then. Muryet didn't get no coddlin' from th' Abbess!

"Any'ow, she used t' sit about in th' kitchens, an' th' Friar'd load

her with sweets. That mustve gone on for nearly a season or two! Then

Comelie came t' th' Friar, moanin' that she'd found heaps o' Muryet's

thrown-away food, mouldy as toadstools, an' that she was smellin'

sweets on 'er breath. When th' Friar 'eard that, he fixed up a bowl

of oat porridge an' a few scones and set 'em before her, tellin' her

that she'd not taste another sweetmeat until she ate that. I remember I

passed by an' saw her sittin' there for at least three days - starin'

at that same bowl of oat porridge an' those scones! "

Salome wrinkled her snout. Samuel may have been right - this creature _was_ a madbeast, to have starved herself for three days!

"But in th' end, " Marianne continued, "Muryet ate it. Ugh - that cold

oatmeal, all hard an' crusty from havin' been reheated hour after hour,

an' those awful, stale-lookin' scones! But after that, she asked for

th' same thing for supper. Everyone figured she was doin' it t' be

saucy. But then she wanted oatmeal an' scones at every meal! When th'

Friar couldn't make it for her an' told her t' eat what everybeast else

was eatin', she' went for every scones an' bread she could get her paws

on. She fell in love with cake an' pastries, an' she'd pick th' fillin'

out of pies t' eat th' crust. When she could, Muryet spent all of her

time eatin'. When th' Abbess would toss out lectures on 'ow creatures

of Redwall should be 'elpful and resourceful instead o' gorgin'

themselves like pigs at a trough, it didn't seem t' faze her a bit. Th' Abbess would've set her t' work, except that Sister Bethelle looked over her, figured somethin' was wrong with her stomach, an' said she was an invalid. For nearly a season, she 'ad Muryet laid up in th' Infirmary, an' fed her on broth, water an' physics. Th' poor creature grew weakly an' sorry-lookin', 'alf-smothered in those Infirmary bedclothes! Th' Friar said she might as well 'ave been let out an' allowed to go on stuffin' 'erself sick.

"But one afternoon, when th' Friar's back was turned, I decided I 'ad t' rescue th' poor creature. I snuck an' made up a great towerin' platter o' sweetmeats an' - I'm almost ashamed t' tell you, Salome, but I made certain th' Abbess saw it as I carried it t' th' Infirmary. I 'avent a clue what she said t' Sister Bethelle, but a few days later, Muryet was released from th' Infirmary!"

Both young creatures laughed as they entered the Abbey building.

"As soon as Muryet left th' Infirmary, she headed straight for Cavern Hole, where the Friar an' I were clearin' up. Some creature 'ad been fool enough t' leave a 'alf-eaten scone lyin' there, an' she ate it - slowlike. She didn't beg for more as we thought she would. She just went off an' sort of roamed about th' Abbey - lyin' about for so long 'ad given her a slow , totterin' step, like she was just learnin' t' walk. She went t' th' gatehouse an' shut herself up in there, an' seein' as nobeast could get her t' come out, th' Friar started sendin' Comelie with her food every day - I don't think he felt easy with sendin' me. Now he trusts me a bit more. He almost never sends her bread, but I got t' bring her a little cake last winter."

Having found a flask of cordial for Muryet, they returned to the gatehouse.

As they entered, Muryet half-rose from where she had been sitting, reclined against the wall. She laughed - a high-pitched, giddy-sounding titter. "Heeheehee! Good Lord, you startled me? What's this?"

Marianne and Salome exchanged a look. Marianne handed Muryet the flask. "We brought you a bit o' cordial - you said you were thirsty."

"When on earth did I say that? " Muryet peered into the flask, als if she suspected that it had been filled with poison. She drew back, gagging.

"Ugh! What sort of drink is this? Smells awful - like rottn, smashed-up fruit! "

Salome leaned in to sniff the mouth of the flask. The drink smelled fine to her.

Marianne, however, did not bother to confirm this observation, for she was already edging towards the door.

"It was a lovely eve, Muryet, but you must be dreadfully tired. Salome an' I'll be tripping off t' bed. Good night!"

With that, she seized Salome by the shoulder. Within moments, they were slamming the gatehouse door behind themselves. That giddy laughter followed them - as if Marianne's farewell had been the most hilarious jest in Mossflower history.

As they headed for the Abbey building, Salome murmured to her companion, "Well, I've seen old ratwives gettin' tipsy, but this beats all! "

Marianne's reply was a fierce whisper. "Hush yore mouth - we're goin' straight t' bed, an' we're not t' lisp a word about this t' Friar Jerome! "

More exciting parts will come in the next chapter. Feel free to check out my blog todreamofanoutcast dot blog dot com, and message me if you want to help building it


	9. Chapter Nine

_**A/N: Sorry I've been gone so long - problems with my device. Hopefully I should be more active on soon.**_

By next morning, most of the good creatures had taken more than enough food, and had very little appetite. However, they knew that it would be unfair to refuse all that good fare, and leave the poor Friar to face the wrath of the Abbess. So, as they retired to their beds for a morning nap, with cups of tea and stomach herbs, they promised themselves that they would compensate by eatng twice as heartily tomorrow.

Marianne and Salome stood out on the lawn, clearing the dishes of food from today's festive tables and loading them into trolleys. Marianne gave a small sigh.

"Hardly any use in leavin' good food t' moulder in the sun, if nobeast is grateful enough t' bother eatin' it."

Salome flicked a bit of crust at her. "Aw, don't start preachin', Marianne - we heard enough o' that out o' th' Mother Abbess this mornin'! "

With a noise of disgust, Marianne picked up and discarded a pudding, through which rugged spoon-paths had been carved. "Ugh! If you want t' eat it, then, for God's sake, eat it! But don't pick an' prod at it like a Dibbun, an' then leave it out on th' table! Salome, I'm startin' t' think th' Abbess is right."

Salome was busily exploring Redwall's cuisine. She found an interesting-looking cheese - paleish-brown, studded with pieces of green and red pepper - and bit into it. "Mm! Aye, may'ap th' Abbess 'as a point after all, Marianne - Samuel'd wallop me senseless for messin' over food as good as this! " The young ferretmaid suddenly cast a glance over her shoulder. "That can't be Muryet comin' over, is it? "

Marianne actually dropped a barley loaf and spun about, as if she had been warned of an approaching army. From a distance, the creature appeared to be nothing more than a scrawny little mousemaid in an overlarge habit. She heaved a sigh of relief, before turning to berate Salome for the practical joke. "Salome, _I'll_wallop you senseless if you ever frighten me like that again!"

Whoever the approacher was, her hearing was exceptionally good, for she was soon calling, in scandalized tones, "Marianne! Sister Jane has taught us that there is to be no violence in Redwall!"

The two young maids tensed in their places - both recognized that cough-hoarsened voice. Marianne pulled a taut smile, and, taking cue from her, Salome did the same.

Muryet came into view. The squirrelmaid's gaunt figure was swathed into a habit that looked as if had once belonged to Sister Jane. With the skirt of the habit billowing out like a parachute, buoyed by the wind and the bulk of her bushy tail, she was a ridiculous sight.

"Good morning and merry feasting to you, Marianne and Salome - that is, if I haven't missed it already. I do have a habit of oversleeping. Dear me, I'm positively famished!"

Marianne backed away, towards the nearest table. "Er, oh, my, I'm afraid all th' bread an' scones 'ave gone stale from lyin' about in th' heat!"

Salome corroborated her with vigorous head-nodding - for that was not altogether untrue. "Aye - but there's a good heap o' fruit on that platter over there, an' a wedge o' cheese."

There were no candied or honeyed nuts in sight; Marianne, Salome and the Dibbuns had happily disposed of that temptation earlier. Muryet, however, seemed to be unfazed. She filled a plate with fruit and bread, and emptied it just as rapidly, before dropping back onto the grass, simpering contentedly.

"Ahhh - this sunlight feels beautiful! It really helps to soften the thinness of this outside air. What a delightful feast day this is going to be! "

With a suddenness that made Salome jump, she was upon her feet again. "Where on earth is the Mother Abbess? I felt certain that she and Sister Jane would be holding a story-play for all of the Dibbuns! I'm no longer a Dibbun, of course - but I love story-plays!"

Her two companions exchanged a look - both feeling certain that the story they had heard the night before was not one that Muryet would have enjoyed.

Fortunately, or unfortunately, Samuel appeared, and it was Muryet's turn to jump. He made seat at the table, pointedly failing to notice Muryet, and before Marianne could prevent him, reached for a scone.

"I don't know wot's ailin' those creatures inside, but I'm starved! "

Muryet watched, openmouthed, as he devoured the scone. If Samuel only knew the opinion that she was forming about vermin's eating habits, he would have been highly offended.

After several moments, Muryet managed to smile.

"Oh, er, sir. I suppose you're kin to Salome here?"

It was then that Samuel seemed to take notice of her. He rewarded her with a smile. "Well, actually, I 'appen t' be her brother."

"Sir. . . " Muryet hesitated. "Sir . . . you aren't eating that dreadful stale scone, are you? "

Samuel widened his smile. He was not the only one who would have been offended if he could know the opinion that the other was forming of him.

"I'd 'ardly call it stale, missie - th' Friar baked 'em only yesterday."

Then, to the horror of Salome and Marianne, he selected another scone and held it out to her.

But Muryet actually took a step backward, shaking her head. "Oh, no, sir - thank you. I've eaten already."

Still smiling fit to outshine the sun, Samuel shrugged and bit into it. "Suit yoreself, missie. No sense in leavin' good food t' waste just for th' fact it was cooked yesterday."

Muryet wrinkled her snout. "It's not that, sir. Really, I can't stand the taste of bread."

For the second time that day, the other two young maids exchanged a look.

"If you say so, missie. Are you Muryet?"

All of Muryet's discomfort seemed to vanish, and she beamed.

"Of course I am! How on earth did you know? The Abbess must have been speaking of me - nicely, I hope?"

Seeing as Samuel was too bewildered to form a reply, Marianne cut in smoothly. "Aye, she was just now sayin' t' Sister Jane what a kind, clever young maid you are. But she's awfully worn out from yesterday's feastin' an' all."

Muryet's face fell. Her lower lip began to quiver.

"But . . . how could she be napping? I've not seen her in ages . . . . and a feast isn't a feast without the Mother Abbess . . . "

Just as the squirrelmaid's eyes were beginning to fill, Salome spoke up hastily. "Now, there's no need for bawlin', Muryet," she said, using her most soothing, motherly voice. (Soothing, motherly voices were not Salome's strong suit, but we must give her credit for doing the best that she could.) "The Mother Abbess'll be out later, you'll see. I say, th' Friar Jerome's been talkin' about you. He says he's not certain he'll live another season if he doesn't get t' see yore face."

Instantly, the tears were forgotten; Muryet's face was alight once more. "Oh, dear, sweet old Friar Jerome!"

The image of the Friar, languishing on his deathbed, did not seem to diminish her joy in the least. "I must go into the Abbey at once! Would you care to accompany me?"

Taking a cue from Marianne, Samuel performed what he thought was a gallant bow. (Actually, now that the occasion called for it, he did fairly well.) "I'd be honored, missie. Er, aren't you two comin'?"

"Oh, aye, but first we'd better cart all o' this food inside." Marianne admired Muryet for handling her bread withdrawal so courageously; but she was not willing to take any risks.

A while later, all four young creatures were inside, Muryet was sitting in Cavern Hole, feasting on candied fruits, and the food had been rescued and returned to the kitchens, where Marianne was explaining the bread situation to Samuel.

"Miz Muryet's an invalid, eh?" Samuel commented. "I've never seen an invalid before - I've only seen th' creatures that were livin', an' th' creatures that were dead, or would be dead before long. Drunk off o' bread? Salome was th' same way about onions when she was younger - now she can't stand th' smell of 'em. Just a moment ago I offered yore squirrelmaid a scone, an' she wouldn't touch it. Make th' little ninny start eatin' like any other creature an' she'll be as 'ealthy as you or me!"

The Friar met his eyes. "That may be so, young 'un - I don't know. But while I'm responsible for it, I won't take no risks." He shook his head. "Sister Jane'll 'ave to start 'er again in Abbeyschool t' make up for lost seasons in that gate'ouse - no tellin' 'ow many tomes an' scrolls she's read, but I'd be surprised if she 'as all those facts straight in 'er poor 'ead!"

There was a bit of awkward silence. Then Samuel rose with a stretch and a yawn, feigning nonchalance. "Well, I might as well 'ead out t' fetch that fuel for you, Friar. You'd best come along, Salome - no use in you spendin' th' season sittin' about eatin' th' woodlanders out o' house an' 'ome."

Marianne seized a dishcloth. "Eat our Abbey out o' house an' 'ome, will you? Ha, over my dead body!" She charged Salome, and a playful fight erupted between the young maids.

Samuel caught hold of Salome just before she collided into him. "Say, watch it, or you'll 'ave me in th' Infirmary!"

Salome heard nothing, for she had already plunged back into the fray.

The Friar watched the two young roughhousers, smiling. "Bless their 'earts. May'ap you'd like t' take Marianne along with you, Samuel? She's never gone outside o' th' Abbey before."

Salome had found her own weapon, and a dishcloth duel cmmenced. Samuel smiled, too, in spite of himself. "That squirrelmaid can follow us t' th' ends o' th' earth if she likes. "

"Good." The Friar lowered his voice. "Then may'ap you'd like t' take Muryet off o' my paws, as well. Th' fresh air an' sunlight'll do her th' world o' good - better than 'avin' her spend th' day wanderin' about th' Abbey like a spectre."

Samuel took the hint, but without much enthusiasm. As frail and sickly as the squirrelmaid looked, he would be surprised if she was able to walk for more than fifty paces without collapsing.

The hedgehog Friar patted Samuel's head, carefully, so as not to harm him with his spikes. "You're becomin' a good creature, Master Samuel."

Samuel moved away, brusque with embarassment. "Come on, Salome, Miz Marianne. One of you go an' fetch Miz Muryet, will you!"

_**A/N: Action in the next chapter! **_


	10. Chapter Ten

Out in the Woods, the young maids' spirits soared. For, with the cloud-crested ocean of blue sky above, the green foliage alight with golden sun, and the birds flitting from branch to branch, trilling the late-morning news, all seemed to wear a far more festive air.

Rising on tip-toe and peering up, over the heads of the trees, Salome could just make out the rooftops of the Abbey - a faint, russet-colored fringe,, wreathed all around with grey mist-clouds.

Marianne came to stand beside her. Against the greenery, the pretty squirrelmaid looked for all the world like a flower in her blue, daffodil-speckled frock.

As she twined paws with Salome, she followed the ferretmaid's gaze. After a moment, she remarked, soft-voiced, "God's name! I don't believe I've ever seen anything prettier!"

Muryet wandered over, and took Marianne's other paw. Although she was the oldest of all three, she was not much taller than Salome was, and she was so frail of figure that, standing beside Marianne, she looked almost childlike.

"I've never seen anything more beautiful, either. Why . . . this reminds me of the day when Martin came to Mossflower!"

Salome removed her eyes from the scenery long enough to say, "Martin? You mean th' mouse on that tapestry wot th' Abbess was tellin' yarns about - th' one who was supposed t' 'ave 'ad a sword made from a star?"

Muryet immediately plunged into her own colorful description of the day of Martin's arrival.

"Oh, it was a summer day, I believe - the brightest summer day that Mossflower has ever seen, in fact. The sun was as golden as a pan of melted butter - dripping its lovely rays all over the treetops, which were as lush and green as fresh broccoli. The clouds floated through the blue sky, as fluffy and white as little meadowcream cakes - more cream than cake, of course, which makes them sound delicious and repulsive at the same time. Dear me, I've grown rather hungry!"

The other two young maids burst into laughter.

Samuel appeared, the picnic basket tucked beneath one arm, the chopping axe slung over his shoulder. "If yore hungry, come on an' take this basket, I'm past tired o' carryin' it. Sit an' eat, while I 'unt for a good tree."

Muryet hurried over to Samuel, but Salome and Marianne lingered for a while, watching. Samuel laid his axe across the wagon that had been brought along for carrying fuel, and opened the basket.

"Th' Friar packed turnovers with vegetables an' gravy inside, Miz Muryet," they heard him saying, "but if you don't care for yours, somebeast'll be glad t'eat it."

"Thank you, Master Samuel. I'll just have this fruit and cheese."

Samuel gave her the sort of smile that he gave to Abbeybabes who pestered him, and went off, eating his pastry. Muryet sat down before the basket. Salome turned to Marianne.

"You think Samuel could be right? About Muryet, I mean?"

Marianne looked doubtful. "I 'aven't a clue. He may be right. But it's a very 'ard way t' think about poor Muryet, an' any'ow, if I went pokin' about an' did somethin' foolish th' Friar'd 'ave my 'ide. Let's go an' eat somethin'."

They sat with Muryet, who had polished off her portion of fruit and cheese. She was far from being full, but she said nothing to her companions.

Salome considered the vegetable turnovers. A turnover wasn't quite like bread or scones, was it? Of course it was not. Muryet had to be mad - depriving herself of a wonderful woodlander-made turnover, only because she was afraid of getting drunk off of bread.

Salome hesitated, a turnover in one paw. Samuel had warned her to keep her snout out of these woodlanders' business - but it couldn't do any harm, to tempt Muryet a bit. Besides, she had never seen a woodlander "getting drunk." A squirrelmaid, drunk off of turnovers - what a sight that would be, if it happened!

Stifling her laughter, Salome glanced at Marianne, who was singing a hymn and paying no mind to the other two. Salome bit into her turnover, making noises of exaggerated relish.

"Mmm - this gravy's the best! What are these vegetables called, Muryet - never 'ad 'em before. Oh, you wouldn't know - you don't eat these. Mmm . . . carrots an' onions!"

Muryet swallowed, but, otherwise, pretended to be deaf. Salome took another bite.

"Hope th' Friar teaches me t' make crust like this - fluffy an' golden. I could eat an Abbeyful o' these!"

"You could eat an Abbeyful o' anythin', you famine-faced ferret!" Marianne turned around, giggling - just in time to see Muryet reach for the heap of turnovers. Her brown eyes widened.

"Why, Muryet! What . . ."

But it was too late; Muryet was devouring her turnover.

Salome squirmed a bit, avoiding Marianne's eyes.

"I found a big old dead oak!" Samuel came into view, brushing bits of dirt and bark from his paws. "I'm 'ungry as th' devil. Toss me that other turnover, Salome, if you ain't wolfed it down already."

Wordlessly Marianne gestured toward Muryet, who had "wolfed down" half of the turnover; the rest was lying, neglected, on a checkered handkerchief. Samuel bent over the squirrelmaid and took her chin into his paw, peering into her face. "Wot's ailin' you now, Miz Muryet?"

Muryet drew away. "I don't feel well." Her voice sounded flat. "I'm going to lie down. Leave me in peace, will you . . ."

Salome bit her lip, and Marianne appeared worried; but they did not dare to ask questions or make remarks. In silence, they followed Samuel, leaving Muryet lying in that clearing, the folded picnic quilt cushioning her head.

Samuel led them over to a great fallen oak. The recent rainstorms had battered away at its coat of bark; but the wood seemed to be intact.

Salome stepped forward for a closer look. "Look, there's lots of branches that've been snapped apart - chopped apart, more like. Th' Abbeybeasts must've found this tree before, an' gotten fuel from it."

Marianne took a look and dismissed the idea. "Th' Abbeybeasts use axes, like th' one Master Samuel 'as - those look like they've been sliced off with a knife o' some sort!"

Samuel shouldered his axe. "Mighty clever creature that would 'ave t' be - must've snapped a dozen knives that way. Stand out o' th' way, you two."

Forgetting about Muryet, Salome gave him her most ingratiating smile. "Yore bound t'lose that dagger if you carry it about while you're choppin'. Come on, Big Brother, let me hold it."

Samuel made a face. He surrendered the dagger to her. "Here, you can 'old it for a bit, but call me Big Brother once more an' I'll run you through with th' thing!"

Salome ran her paw along the edge of the blade, which had become, in her fancies, the sword of Martin. True, the poor Mother Abbess was most likely becoming senile at an early age; but there could be no harm in imagining that she had been speaking the truth about a Warrior and a star-sword. The Badger King was approaching now - Bear the Fighter, he was called, if she remembered correctly. Well, he certainly did look as huge and fierce as a bear - but there was nothing ungainly about his swordplay. How big he was, yet how agile and dangerously graceful! She couldn't name any of his moves - perhaps because of the fact that those moves were all sorts of fancy thrusts and flourishes, Salome's own idea of swordplay. And as she lifted her "sword", Salome was surprised to find that, although she was an amateur, she followed every move without effort.

At last, Bear the Fighter rose, and awarded her with one of his rare smiles. (Salome was certain that stern, silent Badger Kings were seldom seen smiling.) "You have done well, little maid," he rumbled, using the same polished, ridiculously proper prose that the Abbess and Sister Jane spoke with. "Take this blade to Mossflower, and place it in the paws of Martin the Warrior, who will defend the good creatures from the evils of Kotirsshadow." (Whatever that was, but it had been in Marianne's song.)

Bear the Fighter's eyes were very sad. "I have grown old, little maid. Soon there will be nobeast left to rule my mountain, for my only heir, Sunface (that was the name, wasn't?) - er . . . well, something has happejed to him. I forget what exactly, but whatever it was, he's gone now. I leave you to bring Martin here, so that he may guard Salamandastron. Soon I will be crossing through the gates of Dark Forest."

Of a sudden, the plaintive, on-my-deathbed look vanished from Bear's eyes, replaced by a scowl. "Wot in all Mossflower are you bawlin' for, Salome?"

Salome blinked in startlement, and realized that her eyelids were wet. Samuel had set the axe aside, and was staring at her.

Salome sniffled, and managed a smile. If only Samuel could have seen poor Bear the Fighter, preparing to draw his last breath. "Just thinkin' about Pappa. He was a nice old sort - better'n most, at least. It was 'im wot gave you th' blade - er, wasn't it?"

Samuel, evidently relieved that Salome had managed to pull herself together, continued with his chopping. "Aye, when you were naught but a kit."

Marianne placed a gentle paw upon that of Salome. "Well, I'm certain creatures don't go up t' 'eaven just to 'ave you spend all yore days weepin' an' moanin' about 'em. They're up there waitin' for us, sittin' in thrones, with cups o' silver an' golden good deeds piled up about them . .. just waitin' for us t' come up an' join 'em when we grow tired o' this old world." The squirrelmaid's brown eyes followed the acrobatics of a summer-giddy golden-winged butterfly. "But th' knights of 'eaven . . . well, th' ordinary creatures of 'eaven see them in their palaces like I'm lookin' at that butterfly."

Later, Samuel paused with his work and went to check up on Muryet. He carried the axe with him - Salome knew that he would not set it down for fear that he would ache twice as badly when he resumed his chopping.

Samuel was away for so long that Salome began to think that he had decided to rest after all. Marianne had fallen asleep, reclining against a treestump. Salome decided that she might as well practice her Martin-the-Warrior swordplay with Samuel's dagger, seeing as he wasn't around to forbid her.

First, she gave it a thorough polishing - spitting on the blade, then rubbing it with a leaf till it shone as bright as a mirror. Having done this, she rose and gave the dagger a few "elegant" twirls, before throwing itm Instead of hissing through the air like a javelin, as she hoped it would, it hurtled across the clearing, spinning wildly, and lost itself amidst the foliage. Hurrying over to the spot, Salome went down on all fours, and began to paw through the grass and heaps of fallen leaves. The blade was nowhere in sight.

"Oh, Hellgates!"

Salome returned to the clearing and sat down, trying to convince herself that, if Samuel did not strangle her to death first, he would search for the dagger himself. Aye - perhaps the dagger was in plain sight; Samuel's eyes were much better than hers. It was not pleasant to think of what he would have to say to her - about being a silly, careless little oaf - but, so long as the dagger was found, it would not be much worse.

With these thoughts, Salome managed to fall asleep.

OOOOoooooooOOOOoo

"Salome . . . Marianne. . . Salome! Wake up! Get up, for God's sake!"

The two young maids opened their eyes, and saw Samuel standing there, clutching the limp, motionless bundle that was Muryet; those gaunt limbs dangled uselessly, almost skimming the ground. Blood had drenched her habit, and, upon the front of Samuel's tunic, reddish-black stains were spreading themselves. Samuel cast a desperate look in the direction of the wagon, but was forced to discard that idea.

"Don't stand there like oafs, you two," he gritted. "Get walkin' - fast - back t' th' Abbey th' same way we came, an' try not t' make a sound!"


	11. Chapter Eleven

Samuel entered Cavern Hole.

The sight of the squirrelmaid, slumped like a sack against Samuel's

chest, seemngly leaking blood onto the front of his tunic, and the two

young creatures trailing, ashen-faced, behind him, seemed to set off a

firework explosion. Before long, the gathering Redwallers had formed a

path from the doorway of Great Hall to the doorway of the Infirmary.

Facing that barricade of creatures, Samuel raised his voice, hoping to

make himself heard. "Get out o' th' way, for God's sake! Get out o' th'

way! "

A few creatures were sensible enough to move to the side, and, as

Samuel jostled his way through the narrow gap that this had provided

him with, he shouted back to Marianne. "Miz Marianne! Don't just stand

there! You know where t' find Sister Bethelle, don't you? Fetch 'er,

quick-like!"

Marianne shook herself out of her daze,and hastened off to obey,

leaving Salome to grope her way towards the back of the hall.

The Abbess and Sister Bethelle arrived simultaneously. Although the

Abbeybeasts were docile enough to clear a path for these two, allowing

them to enter the Infirmary, the Abbess was forced to shriek in order

to make herself heard; but for that she was fortunate, for she did not

receive a reply to any of her questions, or a response to any of her

commands.

Then, Skipper Johndam appeared. His very presence brought complete

silence and order to the hall, even before he roared, "Shuttup, all o'

ye!"

The Abbeybeasts retreated from the hall, one by one, in twos and

threes. Samuel was free to carry Muryet into the Infirmary.

Stooping beside the nearest bed, he deposited her onto the blanket, and

Sister Bethelle hurried over to her side.

Within moments, the little form had been shrouded in a quilt, and her

head lay in Sister Bethelle's lap. Several times the old squirrel

Sister had dunked her paw into a bowl of cold water and doused

Muryet's face, all to no avail. She shook her head.

"Look at it . . . this lump. And she shows no signs of reviving . . ."

Only the Abbess seemed to have regained some of her composure. She

knelt beside the bed to examine the lump more carefully.

"She received a blow to the skull, did she not, Samuel?"

Samuel stared down at the blood splotches on his tunic - dark,

reddish-black, still damp. "Aye, Mother Abbess - somethin' like that, I

s'pose."

Skipper Johndam, determined not to shout again, was forced to resort to

a gritted-teeth whisper. "Somethin' like that? Lissen t' me, mate, this

ain't no 'somethin' like that' matter! This may be a matter of life or

death for th' little maid! You saw all o' that blood - it's still

splattered all over yore tunic! An' on that topic, go an' change out o'

that thing! A meetin' may need t' be called, an' if th' Abbeybeasts get

a good glimpse at that thing they'll go insane! Shift yoreself!"

Great Hall was packed, from end to end. Every creature sat upright,

ashen-faced, but silent, listening as Marianne spoke.

"We didn't go t' do it, Mother Abbess." Her voice was quivering. "I

oughtn't t' 'ave let Salome do it. We 'adn't any way o' knowin' it

would . . . Oh, 'Ellgates! Muryet's dead . . . dead . . . an' all o'

Mossflower's bein' overrun by vermin!" The squirrelmaid collapsed

facedown upon the table surface, gasping and heaving, like a creature

who had nearly drowned.

But before pandemonium could erupt, the Abbess addressed her sharply.

"Now, miss, you will cease this foolishness immediately! Muryet is

alive; Sister Bethelle felt her pulse. Sit up now, and draw in three

deep breaths. Shouting and crying will only make everybeast worse."

Marianne did as she was told. The Abbess passed her a handkerchief.

"There's a good creature. Now , what happened? What did Salome do?"

Marianne wiped her eyes. "It's our fault, marm - I never ought t' 'ave

stood by an' watch Muryet eat . . . eat that pastie. She didn't want t'

eat it . . . but Salome tempted 'er into it, an' she was so 'ungry . .

. If it 'adn't been for us, she'd never 'ave gotten ill, an' she'd

never 'ave got 'it in th' 'ead . . ."

Samuel glanced from Marianne's face to Salome, who was studying the

floor. "Tempted 'er? Wot in all o' Mossflower is goin' on here?"

Abbess Elinor folded her paws in a no-nonsense manner. "Master Samuel,

please tell us all what happened!"

Samuel explained that the Friar had sent the four young creatures into

the Woods for fuel, that the maids had stopped in a clearing to eat,

and that he had gone off to search for a suitable tree. He had returned

to find that Muryet was feeling unwell and insisted upon lying there,

so he had taken Marianne and Salome along with him.

"I chopped for a bit an' then went back t' th' spot to check up on

Muryet. But she wasn't there. I wandered about, lookin' for her,

callin' 'er name. That's when I stepped into another clearin' - an'

there she was, standin' there, simperin' away . . . an' four or five

awful-lookin' varmints were closin' in on 'er - great, ugly,

patch-furred creatures. One 'ad a spear aimed at 'er, an' another 'ad a

strip o' cloth in one paw an' a coil o' rope over 'is shoulder." He

paused, for he realized then that his paws were clenched. He managed to

unclench them, and took several deep breaths, just as Marianne had done.

"Yelled at th' squirrelmaid t' run t' me . . . though a 'eavy axe

wouldn't 'ave been much good as a weapon. But she just looked at me,

still with that great smile on 'er face, an' said 'Samuel.' Said it

over an' over again - like an echo. I kept shoutin', but she wouldn't

budge. I 'ad t' make a lunge, an' use th' axe as well as I could. All

th' time, one o' th' creatures kept yellin' t' th' others t' knock me

down first, but not t' slay me. As I got near Muryet, she just fell t'

th' ground, senseless. I scooped 'er up an' made off with 'er. Her 'ead

was lollin' over my shoulder, and when onedo' th' scum flung a

slingstone, it got 'er, not me."

"And this is what caused the lump upon her head," Abbess Elinor said

softly. She paused. "But what of the sickness that you mentioned - and

the turnover that Marianne mentioned? What is all of this?"

Skipper Johndam, however, was slowly beginning to understand.

"Muryet gets drunk off o' bread an' such things, just as Brother Aaron

gets drunk off o' beverages, if you'll pardon my words." His eyes came

to rest upon Salome. "An' she didn't want t' eat this turnover. But Miz

Salome tempted her t' take it, Miz Marianne says. Is that true?"

Salome squirmed a little. She attempted a sheepish smile. "Aye, but I

'adn't a clue it'd 'arm 'er, Skipper. I knew she was 'ungry, an' th'

fruit an' cheese wasn't enough, so I figured I'd. . ."

Her voice trailed off, for the Skipper's gaze had not shifted from her,

and Samuel, too, was staring at her, apparently speechless.

Abbess Elinor took the floor. "Salome, Samuel, have you offered any

other food or drink to Muryet since you arrived at the Abbey?"

Still Samuel was unable to speak, so Salome answered for herself and

for him. "Samuel offered 'er a scone some part o' th' mornin',

MothercAbbess . . .an' I, er, 'elped Marianne t' make a sweetmeat

basket or 'er."

Skipper Johndam gave a mirthless laugh. "Bread again, aye? An'

sweetmeats - well, there's a wealth o' meanin' in that. Pray tell me,

wot sort o' sweetmeats?"

Salome's voice was small. "Just some candied fruit an' nuts."

Skipper half-smiled.

"An amazin' tale, ain't it? Master Samuel an' th' little maids are

takin' a stroll, when Miz Salome 'ands Miz Muryet a bit o' turnover

that causes 'er t' drop senseless in th' mid o' th' Woods. But it's

quite all right - only a mistake. Except for a few things - she just

'appened t' drop senseless in th' mid of a pack o' vermin, an' while

our Master Samuel was tellin' us about 'er sudden blackout, Miz Salome

forgot t' menton th' turnover, till Miz Marianne kindly told us about

it."

Even in his present mood, Samuel felt that he must place a protective

arm about his sister's shoulders. "It was th' shock made 'er forget it,

Skipper. You'd do th' same, in 'er place!"

Skipper Johndam widened his eyes in mock understanding. "Ah, it was th'

shock made her forget. But, if Miz Marianne 'adn't brought it up, would

she 'ave ever remembered?

"Now, don't start bristlin' up, mate. Bless yore 'eart, I'd never

accuse you of a crime. Just show me one little thing an' I'll let you

retire t' th' Infirmary - all those 'eroics with th' choppin' axe must

'ave worn you out.

"Tell me . . . where's that blade o' yores?"

Without turning his head, Samuel spoke softly. "Salome, you dropped

that thing, didn't you?"

Salome avoided the eyes of all of the creatures. "Aye. I . . . I mean,

no. I lost it . . . in that mess o' leaves an' shrubs."

Skipper Johndam smiled again. "I see. First th' dagger was dropped. Now

it's lost in th' foliage. Irrecoverable, eh?

"Tell me, Miz Salome, how 'eavy was that dagger 'ilt?"

Salome only shrugged.

"Reckon it was 'eavy enough t' clunk a senseless squirrelmaid with an'

make a lump that looked like a slingstone lump, or t' knock 'er with

'cos she wasn't faintin' - or dyin' - fast enough?"

At that moment, it seemed as if decorum - and sanity - flew out of the

window.

Marianne sprang to her feet, crying, "In God's name, Master Johndam!"


	12. Chapter Twelve

Skipper Johndam, unheeding, prompted, "_Well_, Miz Salome? Why did yore big brother feel th' need t' bring 'is weapon with 'im? Couldn't've known those bad varmints'd be lurkin' about, waitin' for him, could he?"

Salome's temper rose, and, forgetting her apprehension, she leapt to her feet. "Why in Mossflower would anybeast bring a weapon along? D'you fancy these Woods are some sort o' . . . placid 'aven?" (A phrase from one of Marianne's songs.) "Well, they ain't - an' of all creatures you ought t' know! If Samuel 'adn't brought th' axe along they'd've been deadbeasts - him an' Muryet!"

Skipper Johndam shouted back, "If not for yore axe, eh, Samuel? I'd promote ye t' Abbey Champion anyday - it was plain bad luck yore sister lost or forgot yore dagger, lke the daft, good-'earted little creature she is!"

Salome was incensed. "I ain't daft! An' Samuel ain't never called me daft!"

"Oh, he didn't, did you, Big Brother? Would ye mind goin' out an' findin' th' dagger yore sister forgot or lost - she didn't seem t' be certain which one it was! Are ye sure she didn't forget it in yore chamber, or in one o' yore tunic pockets?"

Samuel slammed his paw down on the table surface. "I give my word I don't 'ave th' blasted dagger! Salome, shut yore mouth an' sit down! You _are _daft - daft an' stupid! A hollow'eaded, clueless, washed-up-with-th'-silt-of-th'-river oaf!"

The Abbess rose just as Salome crumpled into her chair. "Enough! I will not tolerate that sort of language! This nonsense must cease immediately! Marianne, go to the kitchens to assist Friar Jerome; you are no longer needed in Great Hall. Samuel, Salome, you will be confined to your chamber until further notice. I wish to hear nobeast speaking, besides myself and Skipper Johndam - that is, Skipper, if you feel that you are able to speak and behave like a creature of Redwall Abbey!"

Shamefaced, the Skipper mumbled an apology - not to the two ferrets, who were taking their leave, but to the creatures in general.

Marianne retreated to the kitchen, as she was told - but, a few moments later, she reappeared, with Friar Jerome. The Friar had wrangled with Sister Bethelle, hoping to be permitted to visit Muryet, but had returned, defeated.

As shaken as she was, Marianne performed a passable curtsy. "May I speak, Mother Abbess?"

Abbess Elinor regarded her for a moment. "Have you anything helpful to say, miss?"

Without replying to this question, Marianne pointed to Friar Jerome. "Friar, didn't you say earlier that eating bread and pastries mightn't 'arm Muryet after all?"

FriarJerome folded his paws. "Aye, missie, I said may'ap Samuel was right. But I also said I wouldn't take th' risk. What of it?"

Marianne cast an appealing look in the Abbess's direction. "See, Mother Abbess? Salome didn't go t' 'arm Muryet. I swear it!"

Friar Jerome actually took a step backwards. "Missie, what in th'name o' seasons . . . "

Marianne bit her lip. "You gave Muryet cake yoreself, Friar, remember? You sent me with a little cake for her once!"

Skipper J. turned to look at him. "Is that so, Friar?"

Friar Jerome reclined against the wall. "Aye, I did. But it wasn't nothin' regular - it was done on a feast day, th' first cake she'd 'ad in seasons. An' she was locked up in that gate'ouse an' didn't intend t' come out - for bread or anythin' else!"

Skipper J. made a noise of impatience. "Never mind when she got th' cake! Miz Marianne, you brought th' cake to her, I'm assumin'. Did ye notice 'er lookin' groggy or actin' queer after she ate it?"

Marianne realized then that she had blundered, and made an unsuccessful effort to avoid the Skipper's eyes. "Wasn't there t' see her eat it, sir."

"Did you see her th' next day?"

"No sir."

The Skipper's face was inscrutable. "I see. Salome 'elped you t' pack sweets for Muryet, is that right?"

"Aye, sir, but -"

"Did ye stay long enough t' see Muryet eatin' 'em?"

"Aye, but Salome -"

"Did you see her actin' ill - or queler in any way?"

No good would come of lying. "She acted drunk, sir." Marianne's voice was flat.

"_Drunk_?"

Marianne held a miserable, but obstinate silence.

"Hage you anything more to say, Mariane?" the Abbess asked.

Marianne was unwilling to give up so easily; she made one last desperate attempt. "Skipper, 'ow could you say Samuel would 'urt Muryet? I was with 'im from th' moment we left Muryet, an' he gave th' dagger t' Salome to play with before he went t' check on her!"

Skipper J. raised an eyebrow. "An' ye saw Salome lose the blade?"

Marianne opened her mouth to reply, and realized, of a sudden, that she had seen nothing. She had fallen asleep shortly after Samuel's departure.

Now, the Friar came over and placed a paw upon the squrrelmaid's shoulder. His voice was gentle. "Come an' 'elp me in th' kitchens, missie. No use in stickin' yore snout into problems when you can't do anythin' for 'em."

Wordlessly, Marianne obeyed. Salome had received similar advice - if only she had taken it!

As soon as he had closed the door, Samuel turned and cuffed Salome hard across the ears. She fled to the bed and tried to scramble under the blankets, but Samuel seized her by the shoulder and hauled her upright. With his free paw, he thrashed her across the face and head.

"Wot in Hellgates is th' matter with you, Salome? Why d'you act like a blasted fool?".


	13. Chapter Thirteen

That evening, a silence, not unlike the sepulchral quiet that follows a bombardment, fell over Great Hall. Creatures flocked to the door of the Infirmary - Sister Bethelle's sanctuary - demanding to see Muryet.

"Muryet is recovering well, thank you," she said to the Abbess and Skipper - creatures who must be treated with courtesy; to Friar Jerome, who brought her food, so that she need not leave Muryet's side. "She was not injured nearly so badly as I feared. - Food? She is hardly in need of _food_ - I've some herbs for her, and a tankard of water will suffice."

"For heaven's sake, leave me!" she said to others - Comelie, the hogwife who cared for the Dibbuns; the wretched little squirrelmaid Marianne; other ordinary Abbeybeasts. "A roomful of shouting, yakking creatures will do her no good. Medicine and rest are the best things for her!"

And once those hateful, clamoring "visitor" spectres had receded, Sister Bethelle would return to the bedside, where she would sit and stroke the still-unconscious little head, squeeze her paw for the hundredth time, to reassure herself that there was a pulse.

She would not leave the Infirmary, until her small patient woke . . . or until that pulse ceased. If she must feign politeness to that fat hedgehog Friar, then so be it.

Sister Bethelle gazed down at the paw that lay, small and limp, in hers. She shook her head.

"It was his food - his accursed food - and the little oaf of a squirrelmaid that he keeps in his kitchens," she murmured. "If she hadn't lugged that ridiculous tray of food up to the Infirmary, the Abbess would never have complained about poor Muryet. I would never have been forced to allow her to leave this room. I told them all that she was an invalid!"

Later that night, Sister Jane appeared in the doorway of the Infirmary, laden with prayer tomes.

"I felt that you might be in need of these, Sister Bethelle. I will not intrude upon you; I understand that Muryet needs rest if she is to recover."

In spite of herself, Sister Bethelle felt abashed; Sister Jane had anticipated her reprimand. She gestured towards an empty bed. She tried to smile.

"You are welcome here, Sister Jane; set the books upon the bed. Thank you."

She watched as Sister Jane seated herself. It was then that she decided to set aside, for now, the barrier that she had erected between herself and the outside world.

"Has anything happened, Sister Jane?" She swallowed hard. "Has Master Samuel spoken?"

Sister Jane hesitated.

"Sister Bethelle, regardless of what you may hear, you must not repeat any of it to anybeast else," she said softly. "Gossip is the last thing that this Abbey needs today. Master Samuel took Muryet for a stroll in the Woods. He says that he left her to lie down, and when he returned, she had apparently gone roaming. He found her in the midst of attacking vermin, she was ill and fainted suddenly, and a slingstone struck her afterwards. I ca tell you nothing more."

This might have piqued the curiosity of any oter creature,but Sister Bethelle only shook her head.

"She should never have left the Infirmary! I told them all that she was an invalid!"

Meanwhile, the Abbess and the Skipper, unable to sleep, sat alone in Great Hall.

"I suspect that Sister Bethelle is lying, Skipper," the Abbess said. "I feel almost certain that Muryet has not awoken. Now is not the time to undermine her - otherwise, all of the Abbey will wish to follow suit."

Skipper nodded. "Aye, all 'Ellgates has broken loose." He paused, and during the silence that followed, the Abbess did not chastise him. "I can't picture a pack of only three or four varmints - as he said - poppin' out o' nowhere, an' rushin' a little squirrelmaid an' a single ferret over a choppin' axe. Even there was only a pawtul of 'em, a creature armed with an axe an' tryin' t' look after a squirrelmaid wouldn't 'ave stood a chance - he would 'ave took some sort o' bad wound. But he said they wanted t' take 'im down an' leave 'im alive!"

The Abbess sniffed. "Most likely nothing but a pack of common vagrants and robbers, if Samuel speaks the truth. They must have intended to probe him for food."

"Per'aps, but not likely, marm. Wot I'd like t' know is, where are all these varmints comin' from? When I first met that ferret I told 'im my crew 'adn't never seen any of 'em - 'adn't seen a vermin in seasons, for that matter - about this stretch. Now, if he's t' be believed, there's four or five more varmints leapt out o' nowhere an' just 'appened t' crash int' 'im. Only four or five - that ain't natural. If there's one thing I've learnt about vermin, it's that they find strength in numbers."

"If they've never been about here before . . . supposing, Skipper, that Samuel spoke the truth. The creatures might have rushed him for food - but barbarians such as them most likely would have pursued him for blood alone if he had harmed them in self-defense.

Which makes me wonder - why on earth did they not pursue him? Surely they couldn't have known that his flight would lead to the gates of Redwall?"

"That's assumin' th' ferret didn't tell 'em." Skipper J. smiled grimly. "I don't believe I've played a game since wot 'appened t' little Fainlie, marm, but this guessin' game's by far th' 'ardest game I've played in all o' my seasons. While we're on that question, we've got t' wonder 'ow he found 'is way t' Redwall. Could've picked up a map off a peddler or some such creature. An' if that's th' case, then these petty fiends might 'ave done th' same. They knew Redwall Abbey was near, an' they turned tail an' fled rather than chase 'im here!"

The Abbess hesitated.

"I would be happiest believing that was true, Skipper, but I have an uncanny feeling that it is not." She paused. "Let us imagine that the four vermin did not exist and that Samuel harmed Muryet with the bread, then struck her - with his dagger hilt or with any other hard object. Then he returned to the Abbey, bringing her along. What on earth would he want with her? And why wasn't Marianne harmed?"

Early in the morming, Muryet awoke.

It was difficult for her o open her eyes; sleep had glued her eyelids together. The throbbing of her head did not improve matters. But she was smiling.

Sister Bethelle's face was a blur - but there was nothing faint about the sound of her voice. It seemed so loud, so shrill. Muryet parted her lips, but found that words refused to traverse through the rugged caverns of her throat. _Water_.

Sister Bethelle had read this soundless plea upon the lips of many dying elders, and within moments, she was holding a half-filled flask to the squirrelmaid's mouth. Her paw, however, quaked so much that she came close to spilling it.

"Praise God! Shall I inform the Abbess, or the others? No, no - that may wait. They'll only flood the room with creatures and give the poor child a headache, which will finish her off. Come along, little one, drink it up, and then I'll feed you some broth."

As she withdrew the empty flask, she was heard to mutter, "And, by God, no oafs will convince me to send you out of this room until you've fully recovered!"

Now Muryet spoke up, in her hoarse little voice.

"I'll never leave the Infirmary. Death is fine . . . I don't care for food. I saw Fainlie."

She closed her eyes and smiled.


	14. Chapter Fourteen

Abbess Elinor and Skipper Johndam, like most of the creatures in the Abbey, hailed the morning sun with sleepless eyes. While the Skipper went out for a stroll through the Abbey lawn, Abbess Elinor poured herself a cup of tea and sat in Great Hall. Sister Bethelle, who, on other days, would sit with her, drinking tea and complaining about the state of the Abbey, had confined herself to the Infirmary with Muryet, about whom the Abbess had received no news. Abbess Elinor stirred her tea absently. Would it be wise to march up to the Infirmary door and demand to be admitted, or would this encourage all of the Abbeydwellers to harass the Sister? Abbess Elinor wondered whether most of the creatures had retired to the dormitory for a morning nap. Of course, the Friar was awake, but he was a sensible old creature; if the Abbess explained to him that, for now, she alone would be permitted to visit Muryet, he would not seek to oppose her. Yes, she would go up to the dormitory now, and ensure that the Abbeydwellers were resting; then, and only then, would she confront Sister Bethelle.

Just as the Abbess was rising from her chair, Skipper J. strode into Cavern Hole, a loaded sling at his side.

"Mother Abbess, marm, there's some varmints standin' outside, an' they wants a word with you."

Abbess Elinor staggered back and collapsed into the chair. "Vermin? How many of them?"

Skipper Johndam whirled his sling purposefully. "No more than three o' th' scum - great ugly beasts. I'll attend to 'em if you ain't in th' mood t' be pestered, marm."

The Abbess managed to regain her composure. She set her cup aside, stood up and squared her shoulders. "Don't talk foolishness, sir! Of course I will speak to them."

Together, the Skipper and the Abbess went out to stand upon the south wall. From there, the Abbess got a good look at the three "great ugly beasts" who stood in the middle of the path.

A big, husky-looking ferret; a scrawny, youngish-looking stoat; a tall, dark-eyed weasel - the creatures bore no more resemblance to one anoher than melons did to peaches, save for the strange, repulsive, ink-black, bead-round spots that were scattered throughout their filthy coats. The weasel wore what appeared to be a sort of emblem - a ring of silver, centered with an X - on a neck-chain.

The weasel stepped forward. "I know that this place is the Abbey of Redwall; you cannot hide this from me. Are you the Mother Abbess of Redwall?"

The Abbess pursed her lips. "Yes, I am the Mother Abbess of Redwall, and I would have no reason to hide this fact. The creatures of Redwall fear nobeast, but evil creatures in all parts of Mossflower know and fear us. What do you want of me?"

The weasel seemed to be unfazed. "And I am Rashe, Chief of the Walking Dead of Mossflower. I seek two ferrets - Samuel, son of Matt, a male ferret who is approaching adulthood, and Salome, daughter of Matt, a young ferretmaid of twelve or thirteen seasons. Have you seen them?"

Abbess Elinor stifled a gasp in the nick of them. She bit her lip, inwardly praying that her expression had not changed.

"Samuel, son of Matt, and Salome, daughter of Matt. What of them?"

Rashe half-smiled. "It is nothing that concerns you or your creatures."

Skipper J. was poised to tell the weasel that he might scoot off and take his questioning elsewhere, if that was the case; but the Abbess spoke before he did. "Samuel and Salome passed this place yesterday, but they left several hours ago. I do not know where they have gone."

Rashe regarded her with unconcealed appraissal. "Then you've never heard of Jamar, the weasel? Or of the squirrelchild, whose name - if I heard correctly - was Muryet?"

The Skipper's jaw tautened, and the Abbess sensed that he was beginning to whirl his sling, over and over, in one slow arc, though the vermin could not see it. Once again, she spoke hastily, fearing that Skipper Johndam's rage would come to the surface and betray them. "No, we have never heard of a squirrelchild named Muryet, or Mariette, or anything like it. And this Jamar - describe him!"

"A weasel in his middle age, tall and rangy, gray of fur, with yellow, cattish eyes and narrow black pupils."

Abbess Elinor breathed an inward sigh of relief. She sniffed disdainfully. " 'Yellow cattish eyes?' 'Narrow black pupils?' No, we have never seen this 'Jamar' before, and we would never welcome scum like that into this Abbey!"

Rashe sneered. "You've allowed filthier scum - like Samuel and Salome - to enter your Abbey, marm."

Now the Skipper came forward, sling at the ready. "We've no time for yore nonsense, weasel," he growled. "Samuel an' Salome are gone, an' we know nothing about any other creatures. If you 'ave no more questions, kindly take yore leave. My patience is wearin' thin!"

Rashe stared at the sling, seemingly unimpressed. "There's no reason to believe that you are feeding me falsehoods. We will leave now. But we must find Samuel and Salome, and if they left your Abbey hours ago, they are still in Mossflower. My horde will simply have to settle here in the Woods . . . . . until those ferrets show themselves."

He removed something from his belt, and tossed it to the ground. "You might as well have this despicable thing."

When the three vermin had gone, Abbess Elinor sat down. She began to breathe deeply, hoping to calm herself.

Skipper J. left the walltops, so that he could see what Rashe had thrown. A while later, he returned, and handed the object to Abbess Elinor.

It was Samuel's blade, coated with dirt and bits of leaf.


	15. Chapter Fifteen

Not long after sunrise, Marianne brought a plate of food to the room that Salome and Samuel shared.

As Samuel came to accept the plate, Marianne refused to meet his eyes.

"Good mornin', Master Samuel." Her voice was quiet, just barely audible. "Th' Abbess. . . th' Abbess says t' tell you she wishes t' speak with you when you're done eatin'."

"Thank you, missie." Without another word, Samuel closed the door.

He turned to look at Salome, who was still curled up beneath a layer of quilts. Samuel spoke curtly. "I know you're awake. Get up an' eat somethin'; no use in you lyin' about all day."

After a moment of hesitation, Salome sat upright.

"Here." Samuel handed her the plate, which held two ladle-sized servings of oat porridge, four plain scones and nothing else.

"Aren't you goin' t' eat any of it? "

"What do you think?"

Salome took up her spoon and began to prod at the oat porridge.

"What are you goin' t' talk t' Abbess Elinor for? "

Samuel rummaged through his clothing trunk for a clean tunic. "It's nothin' that concerns you."

Salome pushed the plate away. "Well, 'ow come come you get t' go out? What about me?"

Samuel pulled out an overlarge habit and studied it, before tossing it aside. "You'd only be in th' way."

Salome leapt to her feet. "I ain't stayin' in this stuffy room all season - shut up like some sort o' criminal!"

Samuel gave his sister a smile that was bright enough to beat any rainbow, which was confusing for Salome - until he spoke through clenched teeth. "Baby Sister, don't try my patience today."

Salome was silent for a moment. Samuel shut his clothing trunk, having seen that it contained nothing but oversized green woodlander habits.

"Toss me that tunic over there."

Salome snatched up the said tunic and spat on it, before crumpling it and firing it across the room to land at Samuel's feet.

Samuel gave her another, even sweeter smile. He picked the tunic up without a word, and slipped it on, disregarding the spittle.

" 'Ow come yore tryin' t' act all cool?" Salome demanded. "I ain't done nothin' like that since I was a babe throwin' tantrums, an' I was feelin' sure you'd come over an' 'it me - like th' varmint you are."

Samuel headed for the door. "Yore still nought but a babe throwin' tantrums, Salome - just a big babe."

Salome was infuriated. "Why, you - you rotten pig! Yore a smelly garbage-fed sack o' bones wot got lucky when th' rat's fleas didn't chew you up! You ain't my brother - bet yore th' son of a starved an' 'alf dead cat an' a worm that 'ad its 'eart broken!"

Samuel walked on, seeming as if he were deaf. Salome rummaged about for a word with which she could express all of her anger and contempt.

"You - you - you _scum_!"

Samuel froze just a few inches from the doorway. Slowly, he turned around to face her.

"_What_?"

There was no expression on his face, but his eyes bore a hard glint - one that Salome seldom saw. She swallowed hard.

"Baby Sister." Samuel's voice was sweeter than honey. "Sit down an' be quiet."

Several quiet, sitting-down moments later, Salome was alone in the room.

OoooooOOooooOOoooooooo

Sister Bethelle was spooning broth into Muryet's mouth, when a bang upon the Infirmary door separated her from her task.

Now, the elderly squirrel made no effort to conceal her exasperation - for she this must have been the sixtieth visitor request that she had received within the past sixteen hours.

"Friar Jerome, Marianne, Comelie, whoever you are, I will inform you when Muryet has full recovered - now please, leave me, before you disturb her with your dreadful lambasting!"

Abruptly the door swung open, and Skipper Johndam strode into the room, followed by Abbess Elinor. Sister Bethelle sprang to her feet.

"What is the meaning of this, sir? Have you no consideration for Muryet? And . . . God's name! A loaded sling - and a dagger, covered with blood and dirt! How could you bring these dreadful things into my Infirmary, to frighten my patient! Abbess Elinor, tell this creature that -"

Abbess Elinor placed a paw across the Sister's mouth, stifling the rest of her lecture. She spoke in a no-nonsense manner. "Be quiet, please, Bethelle!"

Skipper Johndam laid the sling and Samuel's dagger down upon a nighttable. "Pardon me, Sister, I forgot I was carryin' them."

Muryet was sitting upright, propped against a plump headcushion that made her seem smaller and frailer than ever, half-covered with a quilt. Abbess Elinor came over and sat upon the edge of the bed.

"Muryet, my little one," she said softly. "How are you feeling? "

It would be quite difficult for anybeast to smile with the taste of nettle broth lingering in her mouth, but Muryet did. The Mother Abbess was here - and she was in just as much of a smiling mood as Muryet was! Even Skipper Johndam was smiling! They must have seen Fainlie, just as she had. It was the happiest day of her life.

"I feel wonderful, Mother Abbess!"

"That gladdens me, my child. Come with Skipper Johndam and me. Friar Jerome has baked a cake for you, and he will be devastated if you do not come out to eat some of it."

The smile vanished from Muryet's face. "Oh, dear, no, marm, thank you, I'm quite full, really, and besides, I can't stand the taste of . . ."

Skipper Johndam caught her by the arm, before she could attempt to escape. "Sorry, missie - this time, you've got no choice." He lifted her bodily and began to carry her out of the Infirmary.

Over the sound of Muryet's cries and protests, Sister Bethelle could be heard shrieking. "Murder! Willful assault! Call yourselves creatures of Redwall, do you? Release her, immediately! Shame on you, you impostor of an Abbess! To treat a defenseless child with such cold-hearted cruelty, such unflinching barbarity, such . . . such . . ."

Now Abbess Elinor marched up to her and gave her a little push. "Bethelle, you must stop this, now!" This was enough to startle the Sister into silence, for the Abbess had never been a physically aggressive creature.

"Muryet will not be harmed!" Abbess Elinor found that she must shout in order to be heard over Muryet's screams. "Bethelle, run and find Jamire, and ask him to toll the Abbey bells a dozen times. A meeting must be held in Cavern Hole!"


	16. Chapter Sixteen

As he was on his way to Cavern Hole, Samuel stopped in Great Hall.

The young ferret went to stand beside the tapestry, and gazed up at the ever-smiling mouse warrior.

_Martin son of Luke, eh? I've 'ad t' listen to more terrible drunken feast-songs about you than I care t' think about. Come on, mate - wipe that great simpering grin off yore mug. Creatures who grin all th' time give me th' spooks._

_I see yore bent on holdin' that stupid smile o' yores, ain't you? Give it up. We all know yore love, Laterose o' Noonvale, or whatever you called her, got slain 'cos you were too busy chasin' after vengeance t' look after 'er - an' all th' clown-facin' won't make anybeast forget it._

_Say, son of Luke, I need a bit of advice. It ain't nothin' big - I'm just in God's Hell with a bunch of woodlanders, 'cos my little sister lost my dagger an' decided t' play about with a squirrelmaid's 'ealth troubles. It's queer, isn't it? First it's Luzi who nearly gets Salome an' me killed. Now Salome's about t' give us both a ride t' Dark Forest._

Martin's expression did not change.

_Now don't go tryin' t' make me feel guilty. She's my baby sister. Of course I'll look after her, an' care for her. Huh - look after her. Nice words from the creature who left 'is sweetheart t' be slain by a crazy varmint._

_. . . Throw Luzi in my face, will you? You can't lay th' blame on me for not knowin' what she was plannin'. Luzi was a fool - a thick-headed little idiot. A blind creature could've seen that weasel Jamar meant nothin' good. Look, Martin, if I'd 'ad a speck of good sense I would've stopped her. Then, if I'd 'ad any good sense, I'd 'ave grabbed Salome an' left that sick-pit long before I did. Would never 'ave listened t' that little idiot. I wasn't nothin' but a youngster - not much older than Salome is now._

_An' Luzi was just a season older than Salome is now. I remember. It was about a month before I found her carcass lyin' in th' middle of her den, crawlin' with fleas. Th' Chief gave her a robe as a birthday gift. She was fourteen seasons old that day. Kept prancin' around, fancyin' that she looked pretty in th' thing. It was too big for her scrawny, starved-lookin' body, an' she looked as silly as a mousemaid at a picnic. I couldn't 'ave told her that. Before her father died, maybe, but after th' Black Death took her parents she was like a babe in th' head._

Samuel could see those large dark eyes, moist and plaintive. _Wait for me. Say you'll wait for me, Sammy. _

_"Wait for me, Big Brother. Wait for me. Don't leave me."_

They had entered Mossflower Woods yesterday. Only a while ago, Samuel had acquainted himself with the old dormouse, who had accepted a silver brooch as payment for food supplies and a map. Salome had been fed and allowed to rest. They had not been travelling for a full hour now, and already she was beginning to lag.

"Don't leave me, Big Brother," she cried, after every two or three steps. "Wait for me. Wait for me!"

Samuel rolled his eyes. "Blast it, Salome, stop th' whinin'. Try an' walk a bit faster, for God's sake! Yore too big for me t' be carryin' you, an' I'm already luggin' this pack."

Salome stumbled over a clump of stones. "OW! I almost fell. Big Brother, I almost fell!"

Samuel sighed, but he did not stop - if he had, it would have been the twelfth "big-brother-i-got-hurt" halt he had called since leaving the dormouse's home.

Salome seemed to understand that she was being ignored, and she gave Samuel a moment of pleasant and very relieving silence. Then:

"Walk slower, Big Brother! Don't leave me. Wait for me . . . wait for me! _Wait for me . . ."_

Samuel tried not to grit his teeth.

"Salome! You say 'wait for me' _one more time - a_n' I swear I'll thrash you into next season. You know I won't leave you. An' I've told you about a hundred times t' stop callin' me Big Brother."

Salome was quiet for a while. This was quite unusual for her, and, if not for the sound of shuffling feet and the crackling of dried leaves, Samuel might have forgotten that she was behind him. Thus, her energy, which was usually devoted to complaining and asking questions, was reserved for walking, and, before long, she was trotting beside Samuel.

"Look, Big Brother! I'm walkin' faster now. I'm walkin' as fast as you!"

Samuel had to smile. "Good girl, Salome. Good girl."

Salome slipped her paw into his. "Remember th' night when we left th' settlement, Big Brother? It was very dark an' scary."

Samuel went rigid. "Don't talk nonsense, Salome," he told her, a little roughly. "It was nighttime. It was supposed t' be dark."

"It was scary t' me. We were walkin' through th' forest an' I couldn't see. I tripped and fell into a big puddle o' nasty mudwater. Th' mud was thick an' sticky an' I couldn't get out! But you came back an' pulled me out, Big Brother. I thought I'd be stuck there forever. You were mad at me, Big Brother. I was scared you were goin' t' 'it me. Lord, I'm 'appy you didn't 'it me, Big Brother. You said if I fell into another mud puddle you wouldn't pull me out an' you'd leave me be'ind. Big Brother, I was frightened!"

Samuel gently pried his paw free. "I'll 'it you now if you don't shut yore silly little trap. You know I wouldn't leave you stuck in no mud puddle, Salome. Yore my baby sister. An' I told you t' stop callin' me Big Brother." . . . .

Abbess Elinor caught Samuel, just as he was prepared to descend the steps into Cavern Hole. She seized his paw, much to his bewilderment, and spoke in low, urgent tones.

"Samuel! All of the creatures in the Abbey have been waiting for you in Cavern Hole! You must tell me - have you heard of Rashe, Chief of the Walking Dead of Mossflower?"

Samuel gently pried his paw from the Abbess's grasp, just as he had done with little Salome six or seven seasons ago. "I ain't never seen or heard of any Walkin' Dead, Mother Abbess. And Rashe . . . what sort of creature is he? "

"He was a weasel - very tall, and utterly disgusting in appearance. He had grimy fur, and was covered with . . . _bumps_ . . . they looked almost as if they were globs of dried ink . . . He wore a circle of silver, with an X in its center, on a chain around his neck."

Samuel stared at the Abbess. "Rashe . . . weasel . .. circle of silver with an X . . . "

The young ferret staggered backwards, as if he had been struck.

"God's Hell. . ."

OoooOOoooOOoo

Cavern Hole was packed, just as it had been last evening, but all was silent. It looked as if the Abbeybeasts had been holding another cheerless feast - a cake feast. A wedge of cake sat, cold and untouched, before each creature; Muryet's saucer was the only empty dish in sight.

Now, the squirrelmaid wandered throughout the room, paws outstretched, as if she was a blind creature, groping about for a wall. And she might well have been blind, for she seemed to see no one and notice nothing.

Certainly she, along with everybeast else who was present, did not notice Salome, who had managed to slip into Cavern Hole without being seen, and was now sidling into the shadow of an unoccupied table.

When she was safely behind the table, Salome crouched between two chairs.

Though she could see very little from her position, Salome knew that somebeast was rising, preparing to speak. _Most likely it's th' Mother Abbess_, she thought, _about t' say somethin' about Muryet. _Well, to Salome, even listening to an hour of Abbess Elinor's droning was better than spending the day shut up in that miserable chamber.

The young ferretmaid curled her lip scornfully. Of course, they would catch her when the sermon or meeting or whatever it was had ended. And Samuel would shout at her, but she knew that he would be far too pansy-livered to hit her while any of these Abbey creatures were watching.

"Abbess Elinor. . ." It was Samuel's voice. Salome wrinkled her snout, bemused. Why in Hellgates was Samuel speaking? "If that weasel's th' creature I think he is, by rights, he shouldn't be alive this season. Th' plague should 'ave taken 'im long ago."

_Plague?_

Salome heard the creaking of a chair and knew that the Abbess was drawing herself upright. "What plague, sir? "

"Th' Black Death."

Near the far end of the nearest table, somebeast gasped sharply. Had it been Sister Jane? Salome could not tell.

An earthen mug came crashing down onto the tabletop. "And what in heaven's name is the Black Death?"

"The rats' fleas, Mother Abbess!" It was Sister Jane, and, for the first time ever, as far as anybeast knew, her voice sounded strained, as if with impatience. "Samuel knew these creatures, and he is saying that they suffered from a plague that was brought on by rats' fleas! Who were the other vermin, Samuel? Why have they come to the Abbey, seeking you? "

"Th' Abbess didn't say nothin' t' me about any other vermin, Sister, an' if you mean th' Walkin' Dead that she came askin' me about, I told 'er I never 'eard of them!" It was obvious that Samuel was speaking through clenched teeth. "I only know th' name Rashe, an' th' circle with th' X in th' middle!"

"Where has this Rashe come from, then, and what on earth does he want?"

"He's a weasel wot lived in th' same place I lived in," Samuel said flatly. "When th' Black Death broke out, me an' Salome left. That was th' last we knew of him, Mother Abbess."

"But that is not all you know of him, I'm certain of it. You deceived us, Samuel. Why did you lead us all to believe that you were from Mossflower Woods? And you must have known that those vermin were pursuing you - this was what brought you to Redwall Abbey!"

Salome heard nothing more.

Salome remembered very little about the settlement from which she had come, and she remembered even less about her parents, though she often pretended otherwise. "I was thinkin' about Mamma," was a convenient excuse for a sudden flood of tears, a foul mood, or forgotten chores.

She had been a little ferret kit who ate when Samuel could find food for her, whinged and cried when he couldn't, and, every afternoon, prepared to spend the better part of an hour persuading him to allow her to go out and play near the foraging grounds.

"I want t' go outside, Big Brother! I want t' go outside! It's no fun in 'ere. I want t' go out. I won't get lost, Big Brother, cross my 'eart an' 'ope t' perish an' burn in 'ellgates! I won't go into the foragin' grounds an' try t' steal stuff. I won't go near th' garbage 'eap, I promise! "

At last, Samuel would give in. "God blast it, Salome! Go if you want to. But let me 'ear from th' guards that you took one step away from that spot. . . let me 'ear you went playin' with any rats . . . an' I swear I'll stick a knife into you!"

And the face of a weasel - grimy, dotted with black and purple scabs . . . those fangs, jagged, yellow as curds, zippered into a grin of malicious anticipation . . . the point of a dagger, hovering inches from her throat . . .

_Black Death._

The sound of shouting, quarreling creatures brought Salome back to earth. Sister Bethelle was shrieking, "Black Death! Those filthy creatures have come into our Abbey with rats' fleas hopping about in their fur and a horde of Walking Dead on their heels!"

Abbess Elinor raised her voice to issue a reprimand, but her words were lost amidst the commotion. Her efforts to restore order were all to avail, for she was unaided by Skipper Johndam, who had joined the free-for-all battle to be heard.

At last, she was forced to shout. "Samuel! Have you heard of a weasel named Jamar?"

Samuel shouted back, "Aye, marm, I knew a weasel called Jamar - an' if he ain't burnin' 'ellgates yet, 'e's sure t' meddle with th' wrong beast someday an' send 'imself there!"

"Why? What do you mean, Samuel?" The Abbess's voice was climbing to its peak. "Samuel, please! Look at me! What has Jamar done? Has he taken a life? Has it anything to do with Rashe and his horde?"

Skipper Johndam broke in. "Horde, eh? You mean th' legion o' Walkin' Dead he says he 'as? Pass me that javelin, somebeast! Permission t' go out, Mother Abbess?"

"Permission denied, Skipper! Sit down! Please, sit down! A legion of Walking Dead - why, we have no way of knowing just how many beasts he has behind him! And I've no doubt that weasel knew that Samuel was within the Abbey walls, and he knows that Samuel has our protection! We know virtually nothing about these creatures . . .and there's no telling what they could know about us!"

"Rats' fleas, Mother Abbess!" It was Sister Bethelle again. "You said yourself that the weasel had only two creatures with him! Rashe has no horde, you fools - he is armed with a sack of rats' fleas .. . just waiting to unleash them on Redwall Abbey!"


	17. Chapter 17

"Sister Bethelle . . . Bethelle, you must be calm." It was the Abbess again, and she sounded far from calm herself (considering that she was still shouting), which did little to improve matters. "Think of your patient - this behavior will only excite her! . . . Where on earth _is _Muryet? Oh, God in heaven!"

At that moment, all of the noise seemed to cease, as abruptly as a creature would shut a book.

Instinctively, Salome glanced up. She stifled her cry of alarm in the nick of time.

_Satan's name . . . what's Muryet doing over here?_

It was obvious that the squirrelmaid was still quite weak; she was leaning upon the back of a chair for support, even as she peered over the edge of the table. Those large, dark eyes seemed to drift about, never coming to rest upon anyone or anybeast; a smile was plastered across her face, and she looked for all the world like a happy Dibbun. Salome breathed an inward sigh of relief. Muryet's mind was in another world , and it was unlikely that she saw Salome at all.

Then, Muryet spoke in a whisper - addressing Salome, or some benevolent being that could not be seen.

"Your Majesty! Will you find Fainlie for me? You must find Fainlie for me!"

Salome gritted her teeth. Hellgates!

Muryet held out her paws beseecingly. "Will you return Fainlie to me? Oh .. . say you will, your Majesty. Say you will!"

Her voice was beginning to rise. Already, Salome could see the faces of the Abbeybeasts, standing several feet behind Muryet, so as to give her a decent berth; none of the creatures dared to speak for fear of startling her. Salome shrank back, praying that nobeast would come close enough to realize that she was here.

"Please. . . please!" Muryet was no longer whispering - far from it. "Say you'll find her for me. Say you'll bring her back!"

Salome did her best to meet Muryet's eyes, hoping that the squirrelmaid saw and was paying mind to her - the very thing she had been dreading just moments before.

"Yes!" she mouthed. "Yes! Yes! I'll find Fainlie for you. Muryet . . . I'll find Fainlie for you, see? Cross my 'eart an' 'ope t' die an' drink molten iron. Now go an' sit next t' Sister Bethelle, will you? Please?"

All signs of unhappiness vanished. Muryet leapt to her feet, beaming fit to outshine the sun.

"Thank you! I knew you would do it. Master Samuel will bring Fainlie back to me, and you will find her for me. Martin told me so. Thank you, Queen Salome, my ferrety friend!"

"Salome? What in heaven's name. . . "

As Abbess Elinor stepped into view, Salome realized that she was cornered. She reached up and grasped the edge of the table, hauling herself upright.

The young ferretmaid stood there, massaging the life into her limbs; they had fallen asleep after only a few minutes.

"Miss Salome." Abbess Elinor's voice was unusually quiet. "What in heaven's name were you doing, hunkering under a table like a homeless urchin in the middle of a rainstorm? And I certainly cannot remember giving you permission to leave your chamber."

Salome toyed with the sleeves of her pinafore, avoiding the Abbess's eyes.

"I . . . I . . . I got thirsty, Mother Abbess marm. There wasn't nothin' t' drink in our room. . ."

Abbess Elinor pursed her lips. "Speak up, missie. I cannot understand you!"

Salome dared to lift her eyes a bit, and cast a glance in Samuel's direction. Samuel averted his eyes, making it clear to her that he saw her no more than Muryet saw the creatures who surrounded her.

"Mother Abbess, I'm . . . I mean, I needed . . . I . . ."

Fortunately for Salome, Muryet broke away from Sister Bethelle and wandered over. She was glowing - her "ferrety friend" had vowed to return Fainlie to her, had she not? - and she was determined to share her happiness with the others.

"Oh, Mother Abbess! Martin spoke the truth - I knew he spoke the truth! Didn't I tell you that he spoke the truth? What a wonderful day!"

_Well_, Salome thought, _at least somebeast is 'appy._

Abbess Elinor forced herself to smile, and took the squirrelmaid's paw. "Of course he did, little one. Come with Sister Bethelle and me; you must rest now."

With the assistance of Sister Bethelle, the Abbess steered Muryet out of Cavern Hole. Skipper Johndam followed, a loaded sling in paw; apparently, he was unwilling to let the matter of the "Walking Dead" rest.

For now, Salome was forgotten, and this stung her far more than any thrashing or dishwashing sentence.

Many of the Abbeybeasts lingered about, awkward and uncertain. As their Abbess was no longer present, and the Skipper had deserted them as well, not one creature had the courage to utter a word and risk igniting another civil war.

Samuel was the first to take his leave. As he climbed the steps that led into Great Hall, Salome trailed after him.

Samuel heard those footsteps, but he did not glance over his shoulder. "Don't come botherin' me, Salome." If he hadn't spoken her name, she could not have known whether she was addressing her or the tapestry of Martin.

Salome bit her lip. "Th' Abbess didn't send me back to th' chamber. S'pose that means I can stay out 'ere."

Samuel feigned deafness.

Salome, uncertain of what she should say, fumbled with the sleeve of her pinafore and studied the floorstones.

At last, she spoke up in a small voice. "Sorry I called you a scum earlier."

Samuel held his dagger into the light. The blade was still coated with dirt - as if Rashe, in a surge of contempt, had stuck it, hilt-deep, into a puddle of mud. For the second time, since the day he had driven into the mad weasel/ferret who had cornered Salome, it would have to be cleaned.

"It ain't nothin'. You were just tryin' t' prickle me 'cos yore my little sister. Shouldn't've called you a babe."

Salome came over to stand beside him. Samuel reached down and began to stroke her ears gently.

"See what you went an' did t' my dagger, you little ninny."

Salome peered up into his face."What did you come in Great Hall for, any'ow? I didn't know you cared for th' tapestry of Martin."

Samuel flicked her ear. "I'd sooner sit an' stare at yore mousey little face all season than look at that tapestry an' that excuse of a Warrior. I came in 'ere t' get some peace an' quiet. Should've known you'd want t' come nosin' in an ruin it all."

Salome hesitated. "Samuel . . ."

"What is it?"

Salome toyed with her claws. "What are we goin' t' do now?"

Samuel continued to stroke her ears, and stared up at the tapestry. Salome could not help but to follow his gaze. Martin the Warrior - what beautiful, dark grey eyes he had! And they sparkled with a luster that was far brighter than the star-light of his blade. Samuel might talk as he wished about Laterose of Noonvale and her untimely end. Salome liked to look at those grey eyes, to imagine that they had become clear - clear enough to reflect the candlelight, as real eyes do. As it was, the picture-Warrior kept his smile bright for any creature who should pass through Great Hall, and gazed off at nothing, just as Muryet had done since this morning.

"I don't know what we're goin' t' do 'ere, Baby Sister. I'd be lyin' if I said we 'ave much of a choice. Rashe told th' Abbess he 'as a 'orde behind him - an' th' Abbess is frightened out o' her wits. Creatures are yellin' that he's carryin' a bag o' rat's fleas. But Skipper Johndam wants blood. Huh. These woodlanders are queer. If th' Chief of th' settlement 'ad been in th' Abbess's shoes, we would've been knifed to pieces for bringin' th' threat of death 'ere."

Aye, knifed to pieces, just like the corpses of rats that Samuel had seen as a youngster - lying in the settlement's garbage trench, half-buried beneath the rubbish.

In the dimming candlelight, Salome's face was small and ashen. "Samuel . . . will they throw us out? Th' Abbeybeasts?"

"Don't talk like a fool, Salome." There was a harsher edge to Samuel's voice, of a sudden. "You know th' Abbeybeasts ain't goin' t' toss us out."

After a pause, he added, "Don't suppose we can sit about 'idin' be'ind th' skirts o' th' little Abbess mouse much longer, if this keeps up."

For several moments, neither Samuel nor Salome said anything.

The lanterns and candles, which provided the lighting in Great Hall, and which, on other days, were carefully tended, had been neglected since the day before. Already, most of the lanterns had become dim, and almost nothing could be seen.

The silence was broken by the sound of footsteps. Some creature crossed the threshold into Great Hall, stirring up a draft of air as he or she passed; several lanterns flickered and gave out. All of the lanterns that hung upon the wall against which Salome and Samuel stood were now cold - all but one of them. The glow of that lantern was so faint that the ferret siblings, who had not budged or even glanced up, might not have noticed it, if it had not cast its light upon the blade of Martin. Now, nothing could be seen of the blade, except a streak of silver-white, so bright that it was almost eye-piercing. For a moment, Salome began to think that Abbess Elinor had been speaking the truth about the fallen star and the blade-casting Badger Lord.

Then, Marianne seemed to emerge from the darkness; the young ferrets would have yelped in surprise if they had thought of it.

Instead, when the squirrelmaid came over and held out her paw, Salome clasped it.

Softly, Marianne sang:

"Retired knights! the elders of the Garden

And every morn, their medals are renewed

As the gentle young sky-maidens sing their praises

Tales of deeds, however ancient, and forever fresh and true.

Do you wonder that they chant praise-laden fables

Of the days of creatures still - with them - alive?

Would you wonder still, my child, if only you could see

The undying, awed love-luster in their eyes?"

Samuel smiled a little. "You'd best go an' take yore songs into th' kitchen, missie - Friar Jerome couldn't've got much cookin' done this morn an' he'll go mad without yore 'elp."

Marianne shrugged, returning the smile with a hint of bashfulness. She had spoken very little to Samuel and Salome since the last evening.

"He won't need me very much, Master Samuel - no one seems t' 'ave much of an appetite. Except for Muryet, that is. She's done nothin' but wander around, callin' me 'Your 'Ighness' an' askin' th' Friar for great platters o' bread an' cake."

At the mention of "bread and cake", Salome squirmed uncomfortably.

"Is that you, Princess Marianne? Or is it Queen Salome? I can scarcely tell. Dear me, it is dreadfully dark in here!"

It was not a bit difficult for any of the three companions to tell who _this_ was. Immediately, Marianne donned her sweetest smile. She sang out, "It's only me, Salome an' Master Samuel, Muryet. We're right over 'ere!"

Within moments, Muryet was standing directly in front of Marianne.

"Your Highness, Princess Marianne," she cried, almost breathlessly, "I have _seen _something! I've _seen _it! I believe it will alter the course of Abbey history - forever!"


End file.
